Historical, traditionary, and imaginative tales of the borders and of Scotland; with an illustrative glossary of the Scottish dialect

^T»i •

/ / nl Is! ATiVF

' ' ; J •/ Lf.

•,«rtvjws

_^H^H1^H

^^HH^^^^H^HH

^^^TN

CHATELARD.

VOL. III. P. 22.

W I L S O N'S

HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, AND IMAGINATIVE

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

AND OF

SCOTLAND;

WITH AN

Xtf i]p JltxrJiidj JHdbti

VOL, III.

LONDON

WILLIAM MACKENZIE, 69 LUDGATE HILL, E.G.;
GLASGOW AND EDINBURGH.

ffc

)?77
V,3

INDEX

VOL. III.

Attorney, The, 92

Bonnet Rock, The, 220

Breaking up of the Forest of Plater, The, . . . 141

Bride of Bramblehaugh, The, 233

Chatelard, 17

Christie of the Cleek, 158

Chronicle of the Death of James I., . . . 129

Chronicle of the Death of James III., . . . 345

Compensation, 319

Conscience Stricken, The, 33

Contrast of Wives, The, 385

Curate of Govan, The, 73

Destitute, The 305

Dream, The, 337

Duncan Schulebred's Vision of Judgment, . . .113
Early Days of a Friend of the Covenant, The, . . 177

Falsehood Reproved, 144

Floshend Inn, The, 273

Fortunes of William VVigh ton, The, . . . .121

Gipsy Lover, The, 241

Heiress of Balgowan, The, 399

Heiress of Insanity, The, 281

Hume and the Governor of Berwick, .... 409

Hypochondriac, The, 97

Intended Bridegrooms, The, ..... 201

Interrupted Ceremony, The, 396

Katheran, The, 105

Legend of Calder Moor, A, ... 369

Matchmaker of Salford, The, 169

May Darling, the Village Pride, .... 25

Medal, The, 324

Meeting at St. Boswell's, The, .... 41

Mike Maxwell of Gretna, 193

Miser of Newabbey, The, 377

Mistake, The, . . 245

Mountain Storm, The, . . . . . 321
Mysterious Disappearance, The, . . . . 119

Parental Discipline, 361

FAOB

Paying of Debts, 343

Peat-Casting Time, 326

Proof Positive, 243

Raid of Roxburgh, The, 249

Randal Barclay, 49

Recollections of Burns, 145

Recollections of Ferguson, 81

Reformed, The, ....... 204

Ringan Oliver, . . 301

Rival Sheriffs of Teviotdale, The, .... 9

Roseallan's Daughter, 265

Rothesay Fisherman, The, 209

Salmon Fisher of Udoll, The 313

Sandy Murray, the Legacy Hunter, . . . 353

Scotch Law, 185

Scottish Hunters of Hudson's Bay, The, . .257

Scrap of the Covenant, A, 223

Scrap of the Rebellion, A, 128

Sea Storm, The, 161

Seven Year's Dearth, The, 225

Skean Dhu, The, 137

Sketches from a Surgeon's Note-Book—

Chap. L— The Suicide. 1

II. — The Conscience Stricken, . . 33
III.— The Hypochondriac, .... 97
IV.— The Heiress of Insanity, . . 281

Snow Storm of 1825, The, 57

Snuff-Miller's Daughter, The, 393

Soldier's Wife, The, 297

Sportsman of Outfieldhaugh, . . . . . 329

Suicide, The, 1

Triumph of Industry, The, 289

Two Sailors, The, 401

Victim of Public Opinion, The, , 65

Wedding, The, 264

Weird of the Three Arrows, The, .... 143
Writer's Daughter, The, . - . . . .217

WILSON'S

fcal, arratrftuwarg, antr Emas

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SKETCHES FROM A SURGEON'S NOTE-BOOK.
CHAP. I. — THE SUICIDE.

IT is a rain question, that which has been often stirred
among men of our profession and metaphysicians, whether
insanity — includingunder thatword allthemodes of derange-
ment of the mental powers — is strictly a disease, the defini-
tion of which, according to the best authorities, is " an
alteration from a perfect state of bodily health." Both
parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one,
including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit
a gradation in the scale of derangement; beginning at the
slightest peculiarity; passing dn to an eccentricity; from
that to idiosyncrasy ; from that to a decay or an extraordi-
nary increase of strength in a particular faculty — say
memory; from that to a decay or an increase in the in-
tensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion ; from that
to false perception — such as monomania, progressing to
derangement as to one point or subject, often called mad-
ness, quoad hoc ,* and so on, through many other stages,
almost imperceptible in their differences, to perfect madness
• — all without the slightest indication of a pathological nature
being to be discovered or detected by the finest dissecting
knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable — for we
medical men have demonstrated the fact — that a certain
degree of madness is almost always accompanied with
derangement in the cerebral organs — the most ordinary
appearance being the existence of a fluid of a certain kind
in the chambers of the brain.

The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions
alone; for, so long as we remain — and that may be, as it
likely will be, for ever — ignorant of the subtle principle of
organic life — the nature of the mysterious union of mind and
matter — we will never be able to tell (notwithstanding all
our mental achievements) whether madness has its primary
beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain
contented with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with
that melancholy lore which treasures up — alas ! for how little
good — the dreadful symptoms which distinguish this miser-
able state of proud man from all other conditions of his
earthly sorrow ; exhibiting him conscious of being still a
human being impressed with the image of God, yet incapa-
ble of using the proudest gift of heaven — his reason ; sus-
ceptible of and suffering the most excruciating of all pains —
imaginary evils, torments, agonies — yet placed beyond the
pale of human sympathy ; bent upon — following with cun-
ning and assiduity, the crudest modes of self-immolation ;
and sometimes calmly reasoning on the nature of the mys-
terious power that impels to a horrible and revolting sui
cide.

I have been led into this train of thought by the circum
stances of the case I am now about to relate. It is one
of a calm, reasoning, determined self- destroyer, in whom,
with the single exception of wishing to die by violent and
bloody means, I could discover no mental derangement.
The case occurs every day ; but there are circumstances in
this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I
have witnessed and seen described; and, as it bears the in va-
luable stamp of truth, my description of it may be held to be a
105. VOL. III.

chapter, and a melancholy one, in the wonderful history of
human life, wherein perhaps the succeeding capital division
may consist of an account of our own tragic fate, not less
lamentable or less awful. Such creatures are we lords of
the creation ! — so completely veiled are the destinies of
man!

It was, I think, in the month of December in the
winter of 18 — , that a man in the garb of a farmer called

upon me and requested me to visit George B , a person,

he said, of his own craft, who held a small sheep farm back
among the hills about three miles distant. I asked the
messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me
to proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first
time that I passed that way, which might be next day,
would suffice. He replied that his friend was not in imme-
diate danger, and did not wish me to travel three miles for
the special purpose of seeing him, but would be contented
with and grateful for a visit from me on any early day that
suited my convenience.

On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of
the country, and called at the house to which I had been
directed. The day was cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern
north wind whistled among the brackens of the hills. 1 was
struck with the situation and appearance of the house. It
had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much larger
than the ordinary residences of small sheep farmers among
the hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered,
and even dismal : no trees could be discovered in any direc-
tion ; there were no out-houses attached to the dwelling ;
and no neighbouring residence was to be seen. The house
stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless, in the midst
of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered through
the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I dis-
cover any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the
windows were closed up — the under part of the house appa-
rently being only inhabited by the inmates, who shewed no
anxiety to ascertain by looking out who it was that had
accomplished the task of getting to this barren and seques-
tered place.

On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young
woman about eighteen years of age. She appeared to be
delicate — being thin in her person, pale in her complexion,
and of an irritable temperament, for she started when she
saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded features
not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention,
by almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if

George B was in the house. She answered that her

father, for such he was, had just gone to bed, having been
for some time ailing. I told her that it was upon that
account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know
who I was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in ;
and, as I followed the young woman through a long passage
to the room occupied by her father, she told me that her
mother had died about a year before, and that there was no
other individual living in the house but her and her remain-
ing parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair ! thought I, as I
looked on her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning
through the big, open house.

On entering the room, which was cold and poorly
furnished, I observed George B sitting up in Lis bed

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

reading a book, which I discovered to be a large Bible.
He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face
exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy
yellow ; his eyes wore the heaviness generally found in
people of that temperament ; the muscles were firmly bound
down by the rigid, severe, and desponding expression of
dejection, generally found associated with these other
characteristics ; and, throughout his face and manner, there
was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which
was only very partially relaxed by his recognition of me
as I entered. There was, however, nothing of the look of a
diseased man about him; for his face was full and fleshy, his
nerves firm and well strung, his eye steady and unclouded,
and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong and even rough
and burly. Mis face resembled very much the ideal of that
of the old Covenanters ; and the large Bible he held in his
hands aided the conception, and increased the picturesque
effect of the whole aspect of the man.

He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon
he had sent for, pointed to a chair that I might sit down,
and beckoned to his daughter, Margaret, as he called her, to
leave the room. The young woman retired slowly, and
I observed, as she proceeded towards the door, she threw
back two or three nervous looks, which I thought indicated
a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial
sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost
the catch ; the father caught the sound, appeared angry,
and requested me to rise and shut it effectually, and, as he
added, carefully. I complied, and he seemed to listen for
some time, as if to try to ascertain whether his daughter had
proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was uncer-
tain, and listened again, but was still unresolved ; at last,
he said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he
felt he could not enter upon the subject about which he
wished to consult me until he was satisfied, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not listening. I
rose and went to the door. Upon opening it, I saw the young
woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated
precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut
the door; and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause
of all this mysterious secrecy and suspicion to betray the
poor girl, who had perhaps some good legitimate object in
her solicitude, I said simply that there was now nobody
there. He was satisfied ; and I again sat down.

I then asked him what was the particular complaint
about which he wished to consult me.

" That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied.
" I hae nae complaint aboot my body, which, God be
thanked ! is just as strong as it used to be. But there is a
change in my mind, different frae the healthy griefs, an'
sorrows, an' pains o' mortals. My wife, the best o' women,
died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater
number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae
payin my Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife,
an' mony a shepherd his sheep, without tellin a doctor o'
their loss. I laid my account wi' sufferin grief as heavy
as mortal ever suffered ; and in this house, in this bed, on
these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae
struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head to-
wards me, and speaking low, " it rvinna a do.

He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a
deep sigh, as if he had already, as it were, broached a sub-
ject that was fearful to himself.

" "What mean you ?" said I.

"• I mean, that / canna live !" he replied, energetically,
seizing the Bible with a spasmodic grasp — closing it —
throwing it to the back of the bed — then falling in an
Instant into a state of real dejection, with his arms folded
over his breast, and his eyes cast down.

" Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I ;
** but they are the mere fancies of a sick mind — generated

in sorrow, and dying with the time-subdued cause that pro-
duces them. There is not a bereaved husband, wife, parent,
or child in the land, that does not, in the first struggle with
a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing moments of
agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not
yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must
have patience.'

" There is some consolation in that/' he replied. " I am
glad when I think that that thought that haunts and alarms
me is no sae dangerous as it sometimes appears to me.
This book (sweet comforter !) tells me that Tobit prayed to
be dissolved and become earth, because o' his sorrow. It
tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried — ' My soul
chooseth strangling, and death rather than life.' My ex-
perience o' the ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have
some portion o' that) informs me o' the truth o' what you
have told me, that an extraordinary burden o' grief often
wrings frae the sick soul a wish to dee and be at rest. But,
oh ! I foar my situation is different. I hae mair than a
wish to be dissolved ; for, sure, none o' my brethren in
sorrow" — here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears
rolled down his cheek — " ever lay wi' the Hike o' that"—
holding up a razor " under his sick pillow."

I was alarmed, being utterly unprepared for this exhi.
bition.

" You need be under nae alarm," he continued, wiping
the tears from his eyes. <f My courage is not yet strong
enough. God be praised for it ! Moments o' fearfu' forti-
tude sometimes come owre me, and I have held that instru-.
ment in my clenched hand — ay, within an inch o' my
bared throat ; but the resolution passes as quickly as it
comes, and terror, cowardice, and a shiverin cauld — dreadful
to suffer — come in their place. Lay it past, sir — lay it
past."

I obeyed ; and, as I proceeded to place the instrument on
the top of a chest of drawers, I heard the noise of some
one in the passage, with suppressed ejaculations of — "O
God ! O God !"

" I wadna hae shewn you that," he continued, as I sat
down, " but that it is my wish to tell you the worst ; for
nae man can expect assistance if he is ashamed or afraid to
shew his necessities and his danger. I didna send for you
to cure my body, but to examine my mind, and tell me if
it is sound and healthy, or weak and diseased, and, there-
fore, I will conceal naething frae ye that may shew you its
state and condition."

I was pleased to find I had so tractable a patient. I
paused for a moment, to consider in what way I should
draw him out, and on what side I should attack him—-
whether I should argue calmly with him, and endeavour to
stimulate his feelings of duty to his Maker, to himself and
his poor daughter ; or shake him roughly, as a vain and
sinful dreamer who had voluntarily swallowed a pernicious
soporific, and try to awaken him and keep him awake,
after the manner of our remedial endeavours to save those
who have attempted to poison themselves by laudanum. I
saw, in an instant, that he was by far too strong-minded
a man to be operated upon by the mere power of the charm
of the imputed reach and strength of our cabalistic lore —
an agent, if well employed, of great good in our profession —
and too determined (for such resolutions are always, in
some degree, a false result of reasoning powers) to be put
from his purpose by a dogmatic pressure of logical authority,
or the subtle and more dangerous means of good-humoured
or severe satire. My course was clearly to endeavour to
affect the form of his own reasoning, and, if possible, to
invest it with a character which might be recognised as
true by the peculiar and, no doubt, morbid sense of per-
ceptions he possessed of moral truth. I began by securing
his eye, which I saw was, at times, inclined to wander, or
take on that unmeaning, dull, glazed aspect which people in

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the act of brooding over intense sorrows — as if the optic
nerves were thereby paralysed — so often exhibit.

" What train of mind are you in generally," said I, ' ' when
the wish to die, accompanied with the fortitude you have
mentioned, comes upon you in its strongest form ?"

" I first fall into a state of low spirits," said he, " and
then nae effort I can use will tak my mind off my dead
wife. I think for whole hours — sometimes on the hills,
sometimes in the house, and sometimes in my bed — of our
courtship, our marriage, our happy life, and her miserable,
painful, untimely death. This feeds my sorrow, which
grows stronger, and descends deeper and deeper, till
reaches my brain, and I am sunk in the darkness
despair. To escape frae thoughts o' past sorrows that are
owre strong to be borne, I try to look forward to the future;
but, alas ! I see naething there but the pain o' livin for a
number o' comfortless years o' auld age, draggin after me
a memory clogged wi' past ills, and naething afore me but
a gaol, and want, and a lingerin death."

" These are false views of life," said I — " overstrained and
morbid. I must teach you to think better. You have a
daughter who will comfort you, and whom you are bound
to support and protect."

" True, true," he cried — " I hae a dochter, and a better
never sacrificed her ain thochts and feelins to the comforts
o' a faither. The idea o' leavin her, young, faitherless, poor,
and full o' sorrow, in the midst o' a bad world, has, before this"
— lowering his voice — " brought down that rebellious hand
from this throat. But, alas for the inconsistency and muta-
bility o' man's fancies! — dearly as I love that creature, and
she is now my only comfort, my very affection for her some-
times sinks me deeper into that sorrow which produces the
dreadful purpose o' takin awa my ain life ; for I think —
oh ! how weak is man's proud reason, when the heart is
broken wi' grief! — that an auld parent under the ban o' po-
verty is a burden to a child. His death (so in these unhappy
moments do I think) relieves the unhappy bairn o' twa
evils — that o' toilin maybe in vain to support him, and
that o' witnessin age, decrepitude, pain, misery, and want,
wringin frae his shrivelled and diseased body groans o'
agony, striking the heart o' his child wi' mair pain than
would be caused by the knell o' his death."

He now sank his face in the bedclothes, which he
grasped with a spasmodic action, and groaned so deep and
loud that the sounds may have reached the passage. I
again heard a noise from that qtiarter, as if of stifled sighs
and hysterical sobs. I was placed between the groans of a
father bent against his own judgment on self-destruction,
and the terrors and griefs of a daughter listening to the
horrible recital of her parent's designs against his life. The
loneliness of the house, and the solitude of the unhappy
pair — with no one to aid the young woman, in the event of
any appalling extremity to which the unnatural purpose of
her father might drive him — struck me forcibly. I had no
recollection of ever experiencing a scene of grief so peculiar,
with such fearful and uncertain issues, so irremediable and
heart-stirring. The groans of the one and the sobs of the
other seemed to vie with each other in the effect they pro-
duced upon me ; but, great as the pain of the father was,
the sufferings of the daughter, perhaps as peculiar and
touching as any that could be conceived, engaged to the
greatest extent my sympathy. It was my duty and wish
to try to remove the fundamental cause of all this suffer-
ing ; and I waited the end of the paroxysm of the father's
sorrow in order to resume the conversation.

" These views," said I, as he calmed, " wliich you take
of life, and its duties and affections, are all false and dis-
torted. It is our duty to try to regulate our thoughts as
well as our actions by some steady regulating principle,
which mankind have agreed in considering as true, whether
it be derived from the direct word of God or from the

written tablets of the heart. The taking away of our life—
originally given to us as a trust, or imposed on us by the
Author of ill good, for certain ends and purposes which are
veiled from our view— is undoubtedly, in many respects, as
regards God himself, ourselves, our children, and our neigh-
bours—a great, flagrant, horrible crime. It is against the
law of God, the law of our country, the organic law of our
physical constitution, and the moral law of our minds. It
is indeed the only act that can be mentioned that is against
all these. It does not require me to tell you that suicide,
with other murders, was denounced by God himself, speak-
ing in^ words that all mankind have heard, from the " thick
cloud" that hung over Mount Sinai. You are, I presume,
a Christian, and the Sacred Book containing that denunciation
lies at your side ; and yet you have made the dreadful con-
fession to me, that you have dared to meditate on the break-
ing, the despising, the contemning of the command of Him
who by less than a command — ay, than even a word, by
the lifting up of his finger — may consign you to an eternity
of agony, in comparison of which all the sorrow you now
suffer is less than a grain of sand to the sand-banks of the
sea.

" It is true, it is true !" replied the unhappy man. " I
know, I Jed that every word you have uttered is true, maist
true and undeniable as are the sentiments o' this holy book,"
grasping again the Bible; "but can ye, wha, by the command
o' books and education, can dive farther into the nature o'
the mind than ane like me, explain this mystery, that, when,
my soul is filled wi' the darkness o' sorrow, and my
rebellious purpose o' self-murder whispers in my mind
treachery and war against God, thae truths ye hae uttered,
for they hae occurred to me before, tak flight like guid
angels, an' leave me to warsle wi' a power that subdues me ?
It is then that I am in danger, an' the hand that has held
up to my throat that fatal instrument I had under my pillow,
has the moment before been lifted up vainly in prayer to
God, to throw owr* my mind the light o' thae grand truths.
What avails it, then, that there are times when I love them,
and am guided by them, and thank heaven for the precious
gift o' knowin, feelin, and appreciatin them, if there are
other moments when they flee frae me, and I am left power-
less in the grasp o' my enemy?" Pausing and falling again
into a fit of dejection. "I fear, I fear the best o' us are only
the slaves o' some mysterious power. But" — starting up, as
if recollecting himself — "I put a question to you — answer me
in the name o' Heaven ; for if I gie mysel up to the belief o'
an all-powerful necessity, I am a lost man and a self-
murderer."

He was now clearly approaching a rock whereon many
a gallant bark has been shivered to atoms. Even healthy-
minded men cannot look at the question of the necessity
of the will without staggering and reeling ; and hypochond-
riacs love to get drunk by inhaling the vapours of mys-
ticism that rise from it, destroying, as they do, all moral
responsibility, and concealing the vengeance of heaven and
the terrors of hell. It was necessary to lead him from this
dangerous subject, which it was clear he had been studying
and dreaming about, with all that love of subtility and mys-
ticism which melancholy generates.

" No sensible man," said I, " believes in the absolute
necessity of the will. After the will is fixed, the liberty is
already exercised, and there is indeed no mill in the mind
at all, until it takes the form of an active, moving, propel-
ling principle. But these are abstruse fancies, which you
must fly, if you wish to possess a healthy mind. Sorrow,
or any other feeling of pain, will extinguish while it lasts
the burning lights of principle or sentiment. The pain of
the amputation of a limb prevents, while it lasts, the natural
working of the mind ; but grief may be averted, and the
great healing secret of that is, that the mind must be occupied.
Renounce all abstruse thinking, all dav-dreamine, all

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

sorrowful remembering, all sentimental muting— look upon
application, exercise, work, as a duty and a medicine, and I
will answer for your expelling from your mind that dread-
ful purpose that entails upon you misery, and disgraces the
nature of man."

" Your advice is excellent," replied he, somewhat roused;
" but, unfortunately, I hae got the same frae my ain mind ;
and, what is mair, I hae tried it — I hae tried it again and
again ; — the medicine is worth nae mair to me than a bread
pill. My efforts to exercise my mind, when a fit o' sorrow
presses upon it, only make the sorrow the heavier, by
making the mind less able to bear it. My soul is for ever
bent on that question o' the necessity o' the will which you
despise and avoid. I will, God is my witness, argue it
with you, calmly and reasonably."

" Unless you agree to renounce that question," said I,
" I can do you no good."

" Then," replied he, with a groan, " I am left to heaven
and my unavoidable fate. May God hae mercy on my
soul !"

And he again relapsed into a fit of dejection, his head
leaning on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the bed.

I could, I found, make no more of him that day, and my
other avocations required my departure. I told him I
would call again, and bring or send him some medicine.

" It is an unnecessary waste o' your valuable time," he
said, lifting up his head, " to call again upon a wretch like
me. I am much obliged to you for advice ; but the only
medicine for me is — death."

He pronounced the fearful word with an emphatic gut
tural tone, which gave it a terrific effect. I opened the
door to depart, and was surprised to find that it would not
go back sufficiently to allow me to pass freely. The pro-
bable cause of the interruption flashed upon my mind in an
instant. Without speaking a word, I edged myself through,
and saw, lying at the back of the door, the body of the
unfortunate young woman, in a state of insensibility. I
had presence of mind enough not to carry her into the room
where her father lay ; but, seeing the light of the kitchen
at the further end of the long gloomy passage, I snatched her
up in my arms, and hastened with her thither. Having laid
her on a small truckle bed, whereon, I presume, she usually
slept, I found she was in a deep swoon ; and, notwithstand-
ing that it was getting dark, and my time was expired, I
waited her recovery. As she lay before me, pale as a corpse,
and as I thought of the cause of her illness, and looked round
in vain for any one to give her assistance or consolation, (the
groans of her father, which I indistinctly heard, being the
only answer that would have been given to a call for aid in
a house more like a haunt for ghosts and spectres than a
residence for human beings,) I felt the impression of her
peculiar misery pass over me, making me shudder as if I
had been seized with a fit of the ague. The frail, brittle
creature lying there, a victim of hysterics, fit only to be
cherished and guarded by a doting mother — placed in a
large, empty, gousty mansion — doomed to guard alone a
suicide and a father, and, perhaps, to wrestle with him
through blood — her parent's blood ! — for the preservation
of a remaining spark of a self-taken life ! She at length
recovered, exhibiting the ordinary precursors of returning
consciousness — convulsive shiverings, rolling of the eyes, and
beating about with the hands. On perceiving me indistinctly,
she articulated —

" Death ! death ! — that was the word he spoke sae wildly.

— Ah ! I know it now ! — James H has lang tried to

conceal it frae me j but I hae discovered it at last. Can
you save him, sir ? — can you save the faither o' her wha has
scarcely another friend on earth ?"

A flood of teara followed this ejaculation. She tore her
hair like a maniac. I tried everything in my power to
pacify her ; but terror had completely mastered her weak

nerves, and she shoo* as the successive frightful image*
suggested by her situation passed through her excited and
still confused mind.

" Is there no one in those parts," said I, " that can attend
your father, and assist you ? Who is the James H— — —
you just now mentioned ?"

" He is my cousin," replied she. " He lived with us for
some time ; but my father and he quarrelled about a razor
which he said James wanted to steal from him. But
I see it now. There was nae theft. James, poor James, was
innocent, and wanted to save him ; but they concealed it
frae me, and my cousin was turned away."

The mention of the word razor made me start. I had
left the instrument on the head of the drawers, and I had
even now heard the wretched man's groans. I hurried to the
room, and entered softly. He was in a fit of dejection,
groaning, at intervals, deeply, like a man in bodily pain.

took up the instrument without being noticed, and
returned to the kitchen. It was now almost dark. I had
three miles to ride, through wild hill paths, and I heard
some threatening indications of a night storm. The young
woman was still lying on the couch, with her terrors undi-
minished ; but I could do nothing more for her, and to
have impressed her with the necessity of watching her
parent would have created additional alarm, without mcreas
ing her zeal in a cause that concerned too nearly her own
heart. I told her, therefore, that I required to depart, and
was in the act of leaving to go to the door, when, in a pa
roxysm of terror, she started up, and seized me, clutching
me firmly, and crying loudly —

" Will you leave me alone wi' him in this house, and
throughout the dark night ? He will do it when you are
gone. Heaven preserve me frae the sight o' a father's
blood !"

I tried to calm her, and to reason with her ; but it was
in vain. She still clung to me ; and I found myself neces-
sitated either to use some gentle force to detach myself
from her grasp, or remain all night. I adopted the former
expedient, and, rushing out, shut the door after me,
mounted my horse, and proceeded home. She had come
out after me ; for I heard her cries for some time as I rode
forward in the dark.

Though soon out of sight of the house, I felt myself un-
consciously turning my head once or twice in the direction
of the deserted mansion. With all my efforts to think of
some other subject — and my own safety among these wild
hills might have been sufficient to occupy my attention — I
could not, for some time, take my mind off the scene I had
witnessed, and the prospective misery that, in such different
forms, waited these two individuals. When I had gone
about a mile and a half on my journey, I was accosted by a

man, who asked me familiarly how George B was. I

recognised in him at once the individual who had asked
me to call for him. I told him that he was well enough
in his body, but had taken some wild and distorted views
of life, which might place him in danger of his own hands,
while there was nobody in the house to watch him but his
daughter, who did not seem to me to be well fitted for the
task, seeing she was weakly, hysterical, and timid. He told
me he knew all I had stated ; that his name was James

H ; that he was a cousin of the young woman's, George

B having been married on his mother's sister ; that he

had resided in the house, and had discovered the tendency
of his uncle's mind ; and that, on one occasion, he had
snatched out of his hands a razor with which he intended to
destroy himself — an act for which he was expelled the
house, though he was the acknowledged suitor of the young
woman, whom he intended to wed X told him he should
marry her, protect her, and save the father ; but he replied
that the old man would neither allow him to live in the
house nor take his daughter from him ; so that she was

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

compelled to remain in the dreadful condition in which I
had found her. I told him to call upon me next day, and
proceeded homewards.

Before James H called, which he did about two

o'clock, I revolved in my mind what should be done for the
unfortunate man. I recollected that, in a conversation I

had with Dr D of Edinburgh, he told me of a case of

melancholy, and accompanying determination to commit
self-murder, which he had successfully treated by present-
ing to the mind of the patient such horrific stones and
narratives of men who had taken their own lives and suf-
fered in their death inexpressible agonies, and such shock-
ing pictures of murders, where the wretched victims were
brought back, by the hand of their offended Maker, from
the gates of death, with their consciences seared with the
burning iron of His vengeance — that the man got alarmed,
was cured of his thirst for his own blood, and never again
spoke of self-destruction. I resolved upon trying this expe-
dient, and could not think of a better book for my pur-
pose than that extraordinary record of human vice and
suffering, " The Newgate Calendar." I fortunately possessed
a copy, with those fearfully graphic pictures, that suit so
well, in their coarse, half-caricatured, grotesque delinea-
tions, with the dreadful narratives they are intended to
illustrate. I picked out the most fearful volume, that con-
tained, at same time, the greatest number of attempted self-
murders, where the victims were snatched from their own
chosen death, and, after their wounds were healed, devoted
to that pointed out by the law as due to their crimes.

When James H called in the afternoon, I gave him the

volume, and requested him to hand it to the patient's
daughter, with directions to put it into the hands of
her father, as having been sent to him by me. He said he
would take the first opportunity of complying with my
request.

I had no visits to make that required my presence in that
part of the country, for two or three days. On the second
day after I had sent the book, I had another call from
James H , who said that he had been requested by the
patient's daughter to return the volume, and to request
another one, which the patient desired, above all things, to
be sent to him that day. I accordingly sent him another
volume, although I did not know whether to augur well or
ill from this anxiety ; but I was inclined to be of opinion
that the symptom was an auspicious one. Two days after wards,
the messenger called again, with a repetition of his former
request for another volume as soon as it could be sent. I
complied with it instantly ; sending, however, on this occa-
sion, two — for I thought my medicine was operating bene-
ficially, and it was of that kind that could be of no use
unless administeied in large doses ; so, as it were, to surfeit
and sicken the disease, and force it, by paralysing its
energies, to relinquish its grasp of the patient's mind and
body.

Two days more having elapsed, I felt anxious to ascer-
tain the effect of my moral emetocatharlics, and set out on
the special errand of visiting my patient. The house, as I
approached, exhibited the same still, dead-like aspect it
possessed on my first visit. On knocking at the door, it
was opened timidly and slowly by the daughter, who
appeared to be paler, more sorrow- stricken, more weak and
irritable, than on the occasion of my former visit. Her
eye exhibited that terror-struck look which nervous peo-
ple, kept on the rack of a fearful apprehension, so often
exhibit. Her voice was low, monotonous, and weak, as if
she had been exhausted by mental anxiety, watching, and
care. There was still no one in the house but her and her
father ; the same stillness reigned everywhere — the same
air of dejection — the same goustiness in the large empty
dwelling. On asking her how her father was, she replied,
mournfully, that he had scarcely ever been out of his bed

since my last visit ; that he lay, night and day, reading the
books I had sent him ; that he had eaten very little meat,
and had fallen several times into dreadful fits of groaning,
and talking to himself. She added that he felt, at times,
disinclined to see her ; but, at others, his affection for her
rose to such a height that he flung his arms about her neck,
and wept like a child on her bosom. She had proposed to
him, she said, to bring some person into the house ; but he
got into a violent rage when she mentioned it, and said he
would expel the first intruder, whether man or woman.
She had therefore been compelled to remain alone. She
had lain at the back of his room door every night, watching
his motions, whereby, in addition to her grief, she had
caught a violent rheumatism which had stricken into her
bones. When, for a short time, she had gone to sleep, she
was awakened by terrific dreams and nightmares, which
made her cry aloud for help, and exposed the situation she
had taken, for the purpose of watching her parent and de-
feating his purpose of self-murder.

I proceeded to the patient's room. When I entered,
which I did softly, I found him lying in bed, with his head,
as formerly, bound up in a handkerchief ; a volume of the
Newgate Calendar lying on his breast. So occupied was
he with his enjoyment of this morceau of horrors, that he
did not notice my entry or approach to his bedside. I stood
and gazed at him. He had finished the page that was open
before him — exhibiting John Torrance, the blacksmith of
Hockley. His eye rested at least five minutes on this hor-
rific picture ; and, as he continued his rapt gaze, he drew
deep sighs — his breast heaving with great force, as if to
throw off an unbearable load. He turned the page and
noticed me.

" You are very intent upon that book," said I. <c I hope
it interests you."

" Yes," replied he. " My mind has been dead or
entranced for a year. This is the only thing in the world
I have met with during my sorrow capable of putting life
into my soul. It seems as if all the energies that have been
lying useless for that period, had risen at the magic power
of this wonderful book, to pour their collected strength
upon its pages."

" Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly
the truth of my own statement. " I sent it for the purpose
of entertaining you — that is, interesting you."

" Entertaining me !" he ejaculated ; " you mean, binding
my soul wi' iron bands : — my heart now loves the misery it
formerly loathed. But, sir, I am not fed with this food. 1
devour it with a false and ravenous appetite ; and were there
a thousand volumes, I think I could read them all before 1
broke bread or closed an eye."

He rolled out these words with a volubility and an
enthusiasm that surprised me. It was clear that I had
poisoned the mind of this poor man. I had stimu-
lated and partly fed his appetite for horrors. Familiarity
with fearful objects kills the terror and sometimes raises
in its place a morbid affection — a fact established in
France at the end of the last century by an empirical test
of a horrific character ; but which no knowledge of meta-
physics could have dreamed of a priori Why had I
forgotten this matter of history, and allowed myself to be
led astray by vain theories and partial experiments ? What
was I now to do ? The man's appetite for the bloody narra-
tives was so strong that, even while I was thus cogitating,
his greedy eye had again sought the page. It was necessary
that I should conceal from him my apprehensions, and take
up his words on a feigned construction.

'This kind of reading," said I, « interests you, I pre-
sume, because it fills your mind with a salutary disgust
and terror, makes you loathe the act of the suicide, and
mans your soul against the hateful purpose you entertained
against your own life."

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

lie looked to the door, and beckoned to me to see if it
was shut. I went and satisfied him that it was, while 1
was myself assured that she whom lie was so anxious to
deceive was again at her post behind it.

" You ask me," lie continued, " if this book has disgusted
or terrified me against my purpose o' deein. Are we dis-
gusted an' terrified at what we love ? I liae seen the day
when thae stones had sma' attraction for me. But, alas!
alas ! I am a changed — a fearfully changed ^man. My soul
now gloats owre tales o' crime an' scenes o' blood. To me
there is an interest, an indescribable, mysterious interest in

and eyeing me sorrowfully — " do you mean it to kill or
cure?"

" To save you from self-destruction," said I — " the most
fearful and the most cowardly of all the terminations of
human life."

" If you could keep me readin this for ever," he said,
" yer object would be served."

•' I can give you no more of it," said I, conscious that,
by indulging his morbid appetite for blood, I had been lead-
ing him to his ruin.

" Then I must read thao volumes owre, an' owre, an' owre,
again," said he ; " an' when I hae dune, I hae nacthing mair
to interest me in this dark, bleak warld."

He fell now into one of his fits of dejection, assuming his
accustomed attitude of folding his hands over his breast,
and fixing his eyes on the bed, while deep sighs and groans
were thrown from his heaving breast. It was necessary, I
now saw, to take from . him the book which had produced
an effect the very opposite of what I had intended and
expected. I took it up and placed it beside the other volume
that was lying on a side table, with a view to take them
away with me — blaming myself sorely and deservedly for
the injury I had done by experimenting so rashly on the
life and eternal interests of a human being. As I moved
away the volume, he observed me, and followed it wistfully
and sorrowfully with his eye.

" Ye hae dune weel," he said — " ye hae whetted my
appetite for my ain life ; an' it matters nacthing that the
whetter an' the whct-stane arc taen awa when they're nae
mair needed !"

I felt keenly the reproach, for it was just. I might have
taken credit for a good intention ; but my sympathy for the
wretched being restrained any wish I had to defend myself.
I endeavoured to change the subject of our conversation,
and turn his mind to a subject which I knew engaged his
interests and feelings more than anything else on earth.

" Your daughter," said I, " is unwell. She seems to be
miserable. I know a change upon her both in mind and
body, since I called here only a few days ago. Her body
is thin and emaciated, her cheek is blanched, and her eye
dimmed. These signs do not visit the young frame for
nothing. I fear she has heard of the deadly intention you
still persist in entertaining — to take away your own life. It
is clear to me that her sickly constitution cannot long stand
against a terror and an apprehension which even the aged
and the strong cannot endure without grievous injury to all
the faculties of the body and mind. Sir, take heed" — paus-
ing and looking at him seriously and impressively — "you may
become a daughter's murderer before your cowardly courage
enables you to become your otvn !"

" Hold, sir! — hold !" cried the roused man. " Vou now
•peak daggers to me ! I could hae borne this when you
were here last; but ye hae unmanned me — ye hae made me
familiar \\i' him, the king o' terrors, wha waits for me. ]
know him in his worst shapes. He is nae langer hideous to
me; and, being his friend, 1 o;viiiia he my dochter's faithcr
an guardian ! Why cam you here to revive a struggle that

was owre ? My mind was made up. Owre the pages o: that
)ook, my resolution was fixed ; now you wad re-resolve me
aack to my doubt, my pain, my insufferable agony, bybringin
up into my mind the tender image o' a sufferin, sorrowin,
starvin dochtcr. My Margaret — my Margaret ! — her mother's
image — the pledge o' a love dearer than life"

The door opened, and the young woman, who had been
istening at the back of it, rushed in and flung herself on the
bosom of the agonized man.

" 0 father !" she cried, " I ken everything. Yer dread-
fu' purpose has been revealed to me. Ye intend to talc awa
yer ain life, which my mother, yer beloved Agnes, on her
death-bed, bade ye preserve for my sake. But ye canna do
;hat without takin also mine. Yer death will be my death.
[ hae already seen yer blecdin body in my dreams — the image
liaunts me like a spirit, an' leaves me nae rest. The doctor
says true — ye will kill me before yer dreadfu' purpose is
fulfilled ; but if, in God's will, I should be left when ye
are awa, wha is to guard me, wha is to comfort me — with-
out friends, without means, and without health ?"

The scene noAV presented to me transcended anything I
liad ever seen during my long intercourse with suffering
liumanity. The excited girl clung with a firm grasp to the
neck of her parent, and sobbed intensely ; while he, strug-
_ling to be liberated, and holding away his face to the baek
of the bed, groaned and appealed for relief in broken, guttu-
ral, half-choked aspirations to heaven. I saw his eyes
turned to the throne of mercy, and big tears rolled down his
rugged cheeks. In my anxiety to aid his struggle, and
assist him to the return to his natural love of life, and duty
to his God, I was afraid to interfere with the sacred service
of a bursting heart, turned in its agony to the only source
of consolation and healing virtue ; while, if I allowed this
opportunity to escape, I might not have another for adding
a mortal's means and energies (sometimes God's instru-
ments) to the workings of nature, and the silent but power-
ful voice of religion speaking from the innermost recesses of
his moral constitution.

" This is nature and truth," said I, after a pause — " powers
a thousand times stronger than the brain-sick fancies of a
diseased mind. It is the voice of God himself, sounding
through the heart, and, like the electric energy, heaving it
with convulsive throes, as if to cast forth from it the impious,
daring, and unnatural purpose you have cherished in it so
long that no lesser power will expel it. I rejoice in these
throes ; cherish them and aid them, for they are the expul-
sors of a poison that, having got into your blood, and reached
the heart, the seat of life, madly stimulates it to self-
destruction. This is the time — here is the vantage ground
of a return to all that is right, true, and good, from
cowardice, cruelty, irreligion, and even rebellion against
God !"

" Listen to him — listen to him !" cried the young woman,
still sobbing. " Hear thae words o' truth, for they arc sent
from heaven. Receive them into your heart, and it will
be changed, and I will live to see my father enjoy life and
be happy."

" When ?" groaned the miserable man satirically, as if
roused by the sound of the distasteful word "happy,"
" WhenI am sittin at the window o' a prison, thinkin o' my
dead Agnes, and lookin atthe red settino' my sixty-fifth sun?"

These words shewed that the struggle had been ineffectual.
Released from the grasp of his daughter, who sat at the
side of the bed, he doggedly and sternly folded his arms
and relapsed into a silent fit of dejection. No effort would
make him open his lips. There seemed to be no principle
of reaction in his moral constitution ; all was penetrated by a
fatal lethargy, which closed up every issue, bioke every
spring of living thought, feeling, or motion. My profes-
sional knowledge was entirely useless, my personal services
unavailing. I called to him loudly to answer me, and got

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

no roply but deep grormg. I even shook him roughly, and
tried to bend his nead to his weeping daughter. My efforts
were quickened by a sense that bore in xipon me with fear-
ful strength and importunity, that I had, by experimenting
on his mind, and filling it with images of horror, increasea
the disease I intended to cure. Pained beyond measure,
I was anxious to redeem my fault and correct my error by
getting him again engaged in conversation, whereby I might
have a last opportunity of drawing him into a train of
thought which might lead to a sense of his awful condition,
mid u prospect of escaping from its present misery, and its
horrible consequences. But my medicine had operated
too powerfully. There he sat, unmoved, immovable — a sad
and melancholy victim of the worst species of hypochondria
— that which exhibits as one of its pathognomonic symp-
toms, the desire, the determination, persevered in through
all difficulties, all oppositions, all wiles and schemes, to
commit self-murder.

I waited for a considerable period, standing at the side
of his bed, to see if he would exhibit any signs of returning
moral vitality; but in vain. My other pressing avocations
demanded imperiously my presence in quarters where I
could be of more service. The daughter was herself buried
in despondency, her face being hid in her hands, and
broken ejaculations escaping from her lips. I took up the
book which had produced so much harm, and whispered

lowly in her car, to request James II to call for mo

next day. At the sound of this name she started and
looked up wildly. I was afraid I might have to encounter
another scene like that I had witnessed on the occasion of
my last departure. I therefore hurried away, giving her no
time to reply, where conversation was apparently useless.
My intention was to try and devise some means of intro-
ducing a person into the house — though against the de-
termined will of the father — to guard him and assist the
daughter ; but that could only be done through the medium
of the messenger who went between me and the young
woman.

When I had got some distance from the house, I could
not resist the feeling that on the occasion of my prior visit
compelled me to look back upon this miserable dwelling.
I had seen diseases of all kinds grinding the feelings of
unhappy man ; but in the worst of them there is some
principle, either of resistance or resignation, that comes to
the aid of the sufferer, and enables him to pass the ordeal,
whether for life or death. The duty he is called ^upon to
perform is to bear ; for no man I ever yet saw in a sick
bed can get quit of the thought — however much he may
try to philosophize about physical causes, or to conceal his
sense of a divine influence — that he is placed there by a
superior hand^/or the very purpose yf suffering, with a view
to some end that is veiled from his eye. Every pang,
therefore, that is borne carries with it, or leaves after it,
some feeling of necessity to bear, and a satisfaction of
having endured, and, to a certain extent, obeyed the behest
of Him that sent it. In many, this feeling is strong and
decided, yielding comfort and consolation when no other
power could have any effect ; and though in others it may
be less discernible — being often denied by the patients
themselves, and attempted to be laughed at and scorned —
it is, I assert, still there, silently working its progress in the
heart, and spreading its balm even against the sufferer's own
rebellious will. But the case of the suicide is left purposely
by Him against whose law and authority the unholy purpose
is directed, in a solitary condition of unmitigated horror ;
for the desire to get quit of pain — the inheritance of
mortals — is itself the very exclusion of that resignation
which is its legitimate antidote, while the devoted victim,
obeying a necessity that forces him to eschew a misery he
is not noble-minded enough to bear, not only has no good
in view, but is conscious that he is flying from evil,

through evil, to evil ; ?o that from behind, around him,
within him, before him — wherever he casts his eye — there is
nothing hut darkness, pain, and utter desolation. To com-
plete the scene — there is, perhaps, no living natural evil
more peculiar and acute, and less capable of generating
resistance or resignation, than the rack of apprehension
and terror of an only daughter watching, alone and unaided,
the issues of a purpose that is, in all likelihood, to force
her through the energies of the strongest instinct— filial
affection — to stop, with her trembling hands, the flow of a
father's life's blood. Yet all this evil, this misery, was to
be found in that house, standing alone in the midst of
these bleak hills, like a temple dedicated to sorrow.

Next day, James II called upon me, having seen the

young woman, unknown to the father, on the previous night,
and received from her the instructions I left for him. 1 1 <:
saw himself the necessity of something being done towards
the amelioration of the condition of the two unhappy indi-
viduals ; but he acknowledged the difficulty of effecting it.
He perceived, what was true, that, if any watch were set over
hisuncle, it might onlymake certain that which at presentwas
doubtful ; that the watchman could only proceed on the
principle that he was mad, and bind him, or confine him,
or otherwise treat him as insane; and that, besides, he
knew no one who, without pay, (and there was no money,)
would undertake so unpleasant a duty, which might last for
weeks, or months, or even years. No concealed surveillance
could be kept over him ; for he suspected, in an instant, the
object of any one visiting him, and had ordered one or two
individuals, who had come from a distance to call for him,
out of the house — suspecting (such is the way of all big
unhappy tribe) that they came for the purpose of observing
his motions. The difficulty was greatly owing to the lonely
position of the house: the cloak of friendly intercourse might
have covered the frequent visits of near neighbours ; but there
were none such, for the nearest house was two miles off;
and as for relations, they were in another part of the
country, distant in locality as well as blood.

The case was hedged with difficulties. Violent diseases
require strong remedies. I recollected that James II
said, on a former occasion, that he was the suitor of the
young woman, and wished to wed her. I came to a resolu-
tion, on the instant, firm, decided, and sound. I told him
that, if he wished to save the father and the daughter, he
must accelerate his intended marriage with the latter, even
in the midst of the unfortunate circumstances in which she
was placed, and under the unfavourable auspices of an event
of joy being shadowed with a cloud of sorrow. This would
give him u claim on the daughter; and if the old man
would not permit his son-in-law to remain in the house and
assist him as formerly with the labours of his farm, he could
threaten to take her from him altogether — a threat that
would not, in all likelihood, fail to make him consent to his
becoming an inmate in the house. The young man was
pleased with an advice that quadrated with his wishes, and
left me, to consult with some other friends on the propriety
of instantly following it.

I heard the banns proclaimed next Sunday in the parish
church, and was somewhat surprised at the rapidity with
which my advice had been adopted and the plan put into
execution. The intelligence was promptly communicated
to me by the bridegroom himself, who informed me also
that the fact of the proclamation of the banns had been com-
municated to his uncle, who had expressed himself srrongi)
against the match. He had, in fact, taken up a strong
prejudice against his nephew, in consequence of the lattcr's
interference with his purpose of self-immolation. lie had
never allowed the young man to come near him since the
day on which l;e had taken the razor out of his hands by
force ; and the intelligence that he was to marry his daugh-
ter, and deprive him of her society, roused him to Jury

8

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

He denounce d the union, and said that it added another
drop of bitterness to the cup of his misery, which was
already overflowing. I told the young man that the anger
into which his uncle had been thrown would, in all likeli-
hood, do him more good than harm : it might stimulate a
mind, dead or dormant, from the effects of brooding over
imaginary evils, which produced ten times more self-mur-
ders than the real misfortunes of life. He told me the
marriage would not, on account of his uncle's anger, be put
off; that it was fixed for the 15th of the month, and would
be celebrated in private. I informed him that I required
to go to a distant part of the country, and could not, for
some time, see his uncle, and that he must endeavour, by
all means, to support and comfort the unhappy bride in her
watchful care over her unfortunate father, who, according
to his account, was still under the cloud from which he
threatened, every instant, to draw down the lightning that
was to strike him to death.

"When I returned from my journey, I called again upon
the unfortunate man, in the hope of finding some ameliora-
tion in his condition as well as that of his daughter. I
found him still in bed, though he had been up and out on
several occasions since I visited him. I saw no signs of
improvement. I endeavoured to get him engaged in a con-
versation about his own condition ; but I saw that, in place
of being fond of dwelling on the state of his mind, talking
of his sorrows, and contemplating the purpose he enter-
tained against his existence, he shewed an utter repugnance
to the subject, having become perfectly taciturn, sullen, and
morose, giving me monosyllables for answers, and sometimes
not deigning even to shew that he attended to me or under-
stood me. The only thing that seemed to interest him, was
his daughter's marriage — looking dark and gloomy when
the subject was broached, and muttering indistinct words of
reproach and anger. The condition of his daughter was
changed ; but it was only a new form of anguish. Some
days previous, she had observed him with another razor in
his hand ; but he had secreted it somewhere, and all her
efforts had, as yet, been ineffectual to get it. Her watch
had, therefore, been more unremitting — her apprehensions
were increased, while her strength was greatly diminished.
She was reduced to a shadow ; the pale skin that covered
her face seemed to be in contact with the bones ; while her
eyes burned with fever and excitement. Yet her marriage
was fixed to take place two or three days after ! She could
not avoid it ; she had pledged her word, and her father's
safety depended in a great degree upon it. She could bear
her condition no longer — all her powers of suffering were
worn out ; and if her father would not allow her husband
to remain in the house, she would, she said, allow the latter
to exercise what authority he pleased, in endeavouring, by
force, to save his father-in-law and his wife from the ruin
that seemed to await them. The gloom that enveloped her
mind was deepened by the contrast of the light of a happi-
ness she had long sighed for, now changed into a refinement
of peculiar pain. She shuddered when she thought of her
marriage with the man she loved, and feared that the
power of heaven would fall on her for presuming to bring
joy into the chamber of mourning, if not death. As she
epoke, tears moistened her burning eye, and ran down her
thin, pallid cheeks. She wished the ceremony over, as an evil
to be endured, and then fate must take its course, though she
feared the termination would be miserable, as well for her
father as for her. His life was hanging by a thread ; hers wai
worn out by watching, fainting, and suffering, till it was on
the very eve of leaving the body, which was no longer able
to support or contain it. These were the misfortunes in
the inside of the house ; but there were others without
doors. The landlord had sequestrated the stock belonging
to her father — a circumstance that had plunged him deeper
in his despondency and misery, and explained the very

altered state in which I had found him. The landlord, a
lard man, laughed at the device of threatened self-murder,
esorted to for the purpose of exciting his sympathy and
robbing his pocket.

" Yes," she concluded, "he laughed" — and she repeated
he word " laughed" with an hysterical action of the throat,
as if it choked her, and next moment burst into tears.

Two days afterwards, a man on horseback, arrived at my
door, and rapped with great violence ; his horse was heated
ind foaming at the mouth, as if it had been hard pressed, and
ic himself was flushed and excited. He told me, in a hurried

manner, that I was wanted instantly at George B 's ;

e had been sent to me. by another man, and could tell m«
othing beyond the fact that something very alarming had
taken place, and that if I did not hasten thither, on the
nstant, and with my very greatest speed, I could be of no
use. I took with me what I conceived might be wanted, for
my suspicions were more communicative than the messenger,
and proceeded, with all the expedition in my power, to the
aouse where I had lately seen so much suffering.

On my entering the house, a most extraordinary spectacle
presented itself. On the small truckle bed that stood oppo-
site to the door in the kitchen, lay a female figure, dressed in
white, with both her hands rolled up in cloth, from which
issues of blood rolled on the bed ; and her face, not less pale
than her dress, was spotted and besmeared with the same

element. It was Margaret B in her marriage dress.

A young woman, her bride's-maid, was beside her, looking
in her face as if to see whether life was still in her body.
A young man, also dressed as if for the marriage, hurried

me to the apartment of George B , where a scene

not less awful was presented to me. The unhappy man
was lying in the middle of the floor, on his back, with his

throat cut, and James H , in his bridegroom's clothes,

was bending over him, with his hands busily occupied in
stanching a wound that would have let out ten lives, if he
had had as many to destroy ; the floor was literally swim-
ming in blood, and on a chair, in the corner of the room,
lay the fatal instrument, still open. My services were
useless : — the man was dead ; his attendants were engaged
in stopping blood already curdled with death. I hurried
to the patient that was still living. She had lost almost
the whole blood of her body, and it was difficult to detect
in her any symptoms of life. I unloosed the cloths from her
hands ; they were cut in a fearful manner — the blade of the
razor, which she had, in her struggles with her parent, endea-
voured to wrest from him, having been whisked through them
when hard clenched. No one had been in the house ; her
marriage dress was still incomplete — her bosom bare, and
her head uncovered ; a proof that she had been called from
the mirror wherein she saw a half, dressed bride, to see a
father kill himself by his own hand against her efforts to
save him. Her screams were heard by the bride's-maid and
the bridegroom, as they approached the house ; but, before
they entered, the struggle was nearly over ; they found her
bending over the body of her father, which lay on the floor,
grasping the open wound with her hands. So spoke the
attendants as I dressed the wounds. I took up several
arteries ; but there was one in the left wrist which, for a
long period, defied my efforts, unassisted as I was with
professional aid, to stem its torrent. I succeeded at last —
so, at least, I thought — in my endeavours to stop all the
issues. Vain thought ! Death had stopped them
This was the first time I had seen a dead bride.

TALES

WILSON'S

r, flTrafct'ttonarg, ant» 3£mastnatt&*

OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND

THE RIVAL SHERIFFS OF TEVIOTDALE.

IN the early history of Scotland, it is curious to contemplate
the means which Providence seems to have used in the pre-
servation of the independence of a country whose people
were destined to hold a high rank among mankind, for
strong mental powers, and a strict adherence to those moral
rules and duties which are of such importance to the
social state of nations. The appearance of Wallace, at a
time when Hope had turned down her eyes on a scorched
and devastated land, was almost miraculous ; and many
unlooked-for and wonderfully opportune occurrences of the
same kind might be selected from the history of this country,
which never was subdued.

The circumstances to which we are inclined to look at
present, however, are those connected with what may be
called a curious copartnership of fame, which existed among
the military leaders who figured in the days of Scotland's
triumph over the insidious and cruel designs of the Edwards
and Henrys of England. Wallace and Bruce were the first
pair of worthies ; and who is there who has not, in imagina-
tion, aided by the efforts of genius, lived and fought with
these favourites of romantic history ? Scarcely inferior to
either of them, came another pair — Douglas and Randolph—
who, though to a certain extent contemporary with The Bruce,
may be said to have been consecutive, seeing that they con-
tinued their glorious energies after the cares of state had
cooled the martial ardour of their great leader. After
,hese, came another pair — Sir William Douglas, the Knight
cf Liddesdale, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie — <
two of the keenest and most daring spirits that ever threw
the lustre of their valour over the dark period of Scotland's
oppression. The fates of these two noble warriors are
familiar to Scotsmen ; but the general outlines of history
have left to be filled. up by the chronicler of circumstances
many incidents regarding them which cannot fail to be
interesting to all lovers of their country.

Sir William Douglas, commonly called the Knight of
Liddesdale, was the natural son of the famous companion in
arms of King Robert the Bruce, Sir James Douglas, com-
monly called " The Good Sir James." The large estates in.
Galloway belonging to the family, went, on the death of Sir
James, to his brother Archibald, who was afterwards Regent
of Scotland, during the minority of King David II. Sir
William, in this way, got nothing from his father, who died
in carrying into effect the will of another, but made no
settlement himself — an act, indeed, not very common in
feudal times, when the right of the heir in the fee could not
be defeated by the will of the person in possession. The
spirited son, however, inherited the military ardour and
chivalric feelings of his father, as well as those corporeal
qualities without which the other, especially in times when
so much depends on individual personal prowess, have often
been found of no great avail. All the early Douglases were
remarkable for their tall figures, and somewhat gaunt-like
appearance — their bones being large, and the fiesh very
sparingly distributed over them ; the muscles strong, well
marked, and sinewy, and strung with nerves which did not

TTT

shame the high office of supplying the energy which the
burning spirit sent forth to the limbs. Their complexions
were dark — so much so that some of them, and one in par-
ticular, were distinguished by the appellative " black," as a
designative ; and more than one member of the family had a
peculiar lisp, which contrasted strangely with their strong
manly bearing, and the high tone of command which their
superiority in warlike exercises and their great fame gave
them a title to assume.

Several of these qualities were possessed by Sir William,
the Knight of Liddesdale. He was taller than his father,
" The Good Sir James," and greatly more muscular and
gaunt ; and, in place of the suave expression which the
latter made so much use of among his soldiers, and by which
he earned his appellative of " good," he might have been
accounted grim, in consequence of the size of the under
part of his face, and the protuberance of the lower jaw,
forming the peculiarity now known by the word " gashed."
Yet he was considered to possess a handsome face, and the
ladies of his age were too good judges of what ought to be
called beauty in a warrior to have guaranteed to him the
appellation of " The Flower of Chivalry," if he had not deser vea
it as well by his physical qualities as by his genius for war.
A clear dark eye, burning and restless, relieved the some-
what heavy aspect of the lower portion of the face ; black
curly hair, for which his father was remarkable, covered his
head and cheeks with great exuberance, and disdained, in
its strength, to follow the example of the times in falling
down the back after the manner exhibited in the old pictures.
A dark swarthy complexion suited well with these attributes ;
and his extreme height and breadth, with a peculiar rect-
angularity of form, gave him altogether the appearance of a
man chiseled out of some of the hard dusky marbles found
in the northern parts of Scotland.

The internal man was in perfect accordance with these
physical attributes. Bred in the camp with his father—
with the example of his military prowess before his eyes,
and the acclamations with which a grateful people received,
wherever he was met, the companion of Bruce and one of
the saviours of their country, ringing in his ears — the young
knight was from his infancy trained to the art of war, and
incited to its triumphs by the spirit of an emulation which no
youthful heart could have resisted. The military enthusiasm
of that period centred in the desire for revenge against the
English — a feeling well justified by the conduct of that nation,
in making a neighbouring kingdom, for many successive
years, a scene of devastation and blood. The spirit of battle
in the young Scottish nobles was, therefore, not only a virtue,
but a duty ; and one of the earliest which was instilled into
the young heart. In Douglas, the virtue and the duty were
happily the results of natural bias ; all the qualities of his
heart and mind were calculated for the triumphs of war, which
seemed so natural to him that he was never happy when en-
gaged in the tame avocations of peace. The din of battle was
to him what the music of the grove is to the lazy hind who,
j with his tuneful pipe, produces to himself, in imitation
' of the songsters, a world of sound, beyond which he con-
ceives nothing to exist worthy of interesting the feelings of
man. Viewing war as a trade, and a duty he owed to Jll5

10

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

country lying prostrate under the feet of an invader, his
natural feelings received such an accession of force from
these laudable considerations, that every other thought or
feeling was looked upon as mean or unbecoming. His
country lay bleeding at the feet of one of a race of kings
who had sent down to their descendants a hereditary hatred
towards it as an independent kingdom ; and an early patriot-
ism (obscured; however, for a time) quadrated in his bosom
with a love of distinction so strong, that life was, as
compared to it, a thing of trifling importance. These
sentiments could not fail to produce, in a man naturally
daring and unsettled, an enthusiastic love of the military
character ; and, viewing the high idea which Sir William
entertained of the elevation to which it might be carried,
it is painful to contemplate the change which at one time
came over him, when he sacrificed his patriotism for the
gifts of his country's hereditary enemy.

What contributed, however, most to the elevation of Sir
William Douglas' character as a warrior, was the strong
fec4ing with which he was imbued of the nature and import-
ance of that strange creation of the fancy of man, the genius
of chivalry. Absurd as many of the behests of that great
power undoubtedly were, it is not for a Scotsman to find
fault with what contributed to the saving of his country.
No nation derived so important benefits from the institution
of chivalry, as Scotland : for it was when she was lying
like a dying giant, panting for breath and freedom, that the
enthusiasm of the spirit of knighthood filled the breasts of
her sons, and nerved their arms for the work of liberation
and revenge. Of all the men that Scotland ever produced,
not excepting Bruce himself, no one ever realized in his
person and mind the attributes of a " true knight" with
so much fidelity to the ideal prototype as the Knight of
Liddesdale. His superiority of strength over almost every
warrior of his time, made him consider himself as one pointed
out by nature to head the various orders of knights ; and a
creative fancy enabled him to invest his conduct, bearing,
dress, speech, and manners, with all the gay and gaudy
attributes which were deemed essential to the formation of
an accomplished " lady's warrior I" The elegance which
he was capable of infusing into his motions, especially when
engaged in feats of personal contest, was deemed surpris-
ing in one whose formation of body, according to a gigantic
scale, might be supposed unfavourable to the reception of the
rules of grace. His high bearing within the palisades — amount-
ing to royal demeanour, and derived from his conscious superi-
ority of strength, as well as from the ideal type he had been
able to form of the appearance and behaviour of one dedicated
atonce to Mars and Venus — caught every attention, and pro-
duced general respect and submission. Whenever the Knight
of Liddesdale appeared, the ladies' tokens of favour were
unfurled on every side, andcries of "The Flower of Chivalry,"
brought a pleasant corroboration to the ears of the warrior
of what his own thoughts had so often told him — that he
excelled his compeers in that character which he thought
the highest that human nature could assume.

That these noble qualities should have been, to a certain
extent, dimmed in their lustre by others of a dark and un-
favourable kind, is to be lamented by those who cannot
justify cruelty and unsteadiness to pledged faith, though
found in the breast of the brave and the graceful. Even
patriotism, which was the origin of the better qualities of his
nature, suffered in the conflict of the feelings of an im-
moderate and ill-regulated ambition. The gold of the
English Edwards had alienated the loyalty of many Scots-
men, and the repeated apostasy of March and others came
to be looked upon at least without wonder ; but that a
Douglas should have listened, for however short a time, to
the corruptive whispers of Scotland's destroyer, and the
natural enemy of all that bore that charmed name, was
indeed a circumstance of an extraordinary character, am:

oused his country to impute to his illegitimacy what they
:ould not bear to think should belong to the uncontaminated
)lood of so noble a family.

It was well for Sir William uouglas that he had earned
and acquired his title of " The Flower of Chivalry" before
another bright star of knighthood attained its perihelium.
Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie, when still a young

n, shewed a wonderful aptitude for war — combining
great intrepidity with almost unexampled address in sug-
esting and executing schemes for bringing it into action.
[n person, this distinguished captain was very unlike his
contemporary and friend, the Knight of Liddesdale. He
was of middle stature, but exceedingly well knit ; of firm
ibre ; tough and hardy ; capable of enduring any fatigue ;
quick in his motions; and always ready for devising a plan
or carrying it into execution. He could boast, too, a superb
grace of his own, which, disdaining established forms, rejoiced
n the expression of high sentiment and conscious ability
and rectitude ; in a handsome countenance, shadowed with

g light auburn hair; the most correct proportion of limbs,
and an erect determined bearing — all set off by a gay, hilarious,
rapid, and affable manner, which seldom failed in winning
lie hearts of his countrymen.

But what distinguished Ramsay most from his brother
captain, the Knight of Liddesdale, was his strict integrity,
which would have shone as bright in the counting-house of
the merchant, if fate had destined him for that grade, as it
did within the beauty-encircled theatre of the tournay.
Douglas was deemed a perfect knight, and knew and kept
the precepts of honour Avhich chivalry promulgated ; but
once beyond the palisades, and his factitious sentiments
were stripped of their imposing aspect, and the impulse of
private passion, unrestrained by an inherent sense of truth
and honour, drove him into courses which even his own
friends could not justify. Ramsay, on the other hand,
ruperinduced the sanctions of the code of a knight's honour
on those eternal and immutable principles which had been
early impressed on his heart by pious instructors, and had
received the approbation of his judgment, when he was able to
appreciate their excellence. In private life, his honour was
as lustrous as in the field of battle or the jousting-place :
his domestic morals were taken up as a theme of applaus"
to add to the brilliancy of his public fame; and, even in early
life, when strong passions often darken or elface the traces
of moral feeling, he acquired the title of a good man — a
glorious substratum for the erection of those honours with
which mankind repay the services of the patriotic warrior.

Such were the two great captains, who, in the minority of
David II., were called forth, by the united voice of the
nation, to save Scotland from the sword and the brand of
the third Edward ; yet, long before their fame had pointed
them out to the hopes or confidence of their country, they
had been occupied in working out their revenge against its
hereditary enemies ; and, with the exception of that period
when Wallace sprang, phoenix-like, from the ashes of his
country's liberties, it would be difficult to point out an era
when Scotland's sufferings spoke more eloquently to the
hearts of her sons, than when those brave men obeyed her
call. Edward Baliol had dismembered the kingdom, sur-
rendered its liberties, and basely sworn fealty and homage
to Edward. With the armies of the English King he had
twice swept over the whole country, spreading death and
desolation wherever he came : the face of the land was
a scorched waste ; the palace had been left by the princes
of the blood ; the castle had resigned its lord; and the cot-
tage pointed out its locality by the smoke of its embers. It
was a period when, according to an old historian, none but
children dared to call David Bruce their king. But, fortu-
nately for Scotland, Edward made, about this time, a public
claim to the crown of France, declared war against Philip
of Valois, and left Scotland to a deouted oersecution, under

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

li

the charge of the Earl of Salisbury. From that period, the
sword of the liberator was not sheathed till liberty was again
achieved for a country destined to suffer more than any
other in the world by invasion, and yet to be able to boast
that it was never conquered.

Acting in concert, as became the two greatest knights of
their time, Douglas and Ramsay fought with the English
many battles, and harassed them incessantly with that kind
of warfare recommended by King Robert in his testament.
The fame of the two leaders being nearly equal, and their
talents for war in like manner on a level, it might have
been expected that some rivalship would exist between
them, especially where the honours of a battle came to be
apportioned among the victors. No such feeling ever entered
the breast of the generous Ramsay, who was one of those
single- hearted individuals whom nature has made great
and good, without feeling the pride of the possession of
such exquisite gifts ; but so much could not he said for the
Knight of Liddesdale, who was unwilling to allow that
any knight or any noble in the land had any title to com-
pete with him in that field where he had earned and
acquired the proud appellation hy which he was generally
known both at home and abroad. He felt secretly annoyed
by the fame of his companion in arms ; and the cool dis-
regard with which Ramsay contemplated those honours
which he considered of an importance paramount to any-
thing on earth, filled him with envy which degenerated
into dislike. He construed the noble generosity of his
friend, even when he was the object of it, into a piece of
ostentation of qualities which he did not himself possess,
and which he knew that his friend did not think he pos-
sessed. Acts of liberality were taken as insults, on the
principle of those who reject presents because they are often
marks of officious patronage, and the links of the chain of
gratitude, which poor spirits cannot bear without being
galled. This feeling on the part of the Knight of Liddes-
dale was, unfortunately, increased by a curious train of
circumstances, not in any degree attributable to Ramsay,
but involving consequences of a character melancholy and
disastrous.

The brave conduct of the two itnights having contributed,
to a great extent, to the expulsion of the English army from
Scotland, a strong effort was made by them to reclaim
Teviotdale, which had been for a considerable time occupied
not only by English soldiers, but English residenters, who
had quietly set themselves down in the warm lairs of the
Scottish lairds, whom they had expelled from their heredi-
tary habitations. In this they succeeded to the utmost
extent of their wishes. Their attacks were not in this
instance combined; but they were not, on that account, the
less efficacious. In Douglas' onset, he overpowered and took
prisoners several knights of distinction ; and Ramsay was
not behind him in the march of victory. The Castle of
Hermitage fell intothe hands of Douglas; and Lady Winton,
the wife of Sir John Winton, an English knight, was taken
by Ramsay, after he had, with his own hand, slain her hus-
band. These captures, it was said at the time, ought to
have been, as regarded the captors, reversed ; for Douglas
regretted that he had not secured the English beauty, and
Ramsay would rather have had the castle.

" I have made but a poor capture in this expedition,"
said Ramsay to his friend, " and I would be inclined to try
if we could manage an excambion — that is, as our merchants
say, a barter or exchange — so as to equalize our mutual
satisfaction. If a lady was in ancient times deemed suffi-
cient to equiponderate the old castle of Priam, I do not see
why I should be so unknightly as to depreciate this lady,
whom I have against my own wishes entoiled, to such an
extent as to say that no modern dame, though not produced
like Helen from an egg, is equal in value to an old castle.
Sure I am, at least, that the gallant Knight of Liddesdale,

whom our dames have botanized into ' The Flower of Chi-
valry,' would not recommend me to attenuate the preten-
sions of modem beauty by so bold a statement."

" A right good trafficker, by my honour !" cried Douglas,
laughing. " It is the custom of the Flemings, and such
men who devote themselves to the vulgar occupations of
trade, to enhance the value of their commodities and manu-
factures, by vouching for their qualities in words of much
praise; but I must confess that I never did hear of a traffick-
er, who, in operating an exchange, did endeavour to get
his goods bepraised by his brother merchant, while he did
his best to depreciate his wares. I have not seen this fail
captive, and as I am utterly ignorant of the art by which
exchangers compare equipollents in the two articles, ]
cannot tell whether Dame Winton be equal in value to an
old castle or not. Observe the difficulty : my capture hath
four wings, thine hath only two ; and, while I can boast ol
mine possessing both head and heart, I question if thou
canst arrogate to thine the latter possession. But, above all,
mine is steadfast, and thine has the property of being
locomotive and automatons — a quality which may, perchance,
make her mine without the trouble or cost of a base barter.'

"Thy comparison is too quaint for the purposes of trade,"
replied Ramsay, smiling. " Thou mightst have resorted to
another mode, if thy subtle love of the equivoke and
quillet did not run away with thy wits. The Lord Salis-
bury, who is not yet out of Scotland, knoweth that a lady
can save a castle, by the experience lie has had of the love
darts (the cloth-yard shafts) of Black Agnes of Dunbar; but
if a lady can save a castle, thou must know that she may
also betray it ; for Tarpeia, the daughter of the governor o'f
the capitol, delivered it over to the Albans, for a pair of
bracelets. This, I do opine, is the true way to compare. If
a lady can save or betray a castle, she assuredly may well
be deemed worth one."

" Thy conclusion is at least worth the meed of praise,"
rejoined Douglas ; " for thou hast arrived at it by some of
that ingenuity whereby thou didst so cunningly surprise
the English at Hawthornden ; but the English were igno-
rant of the caves in the ravine of the Esk, and I have had
some forecast of the depth of thy art. Yet, after all, thy
argument only proves that Dame Winton may possibly be
worth my Castle of Hermitage — a proposition which no true
knight can deny, seeing he is bound to acknowledge obe-
dience to the law of the order, that a knight's life is the
full price and value of a lady's smile. I have a hundred
times put my life in a venture for a glance, and I may
surely risk an old castle for both the beam and the beautv
who throws it. Yet, true knight as I consider myself to be,
I do not subscribe to the formula that a beauty, unseen and
unknown, hath as great a claim upon the prowess or affec-
tions of a knight, as one who is mistress of his heart arid
the arbiter of his destiny. But I am oblivious. Are we
not, at present, merchants, sordid slaves, traffickers, huck-
sters ? Why, then, this parlance about knighthood ? Let us
see the lady, that we may not, as our townsmen say, make
a blind bargain, and be only wise behind the hand."

This conversation, though intended by Ramsay as mere
sport, had something in it which Douglas considered serious.
He, of course, had no intention of giving up the Castle of
Hermitage, which he had wrung from the hands of the
English ; and Ramsay had as little intention of putting his
fair captive into the hands of Douglas, on whose honour he
could not have relied for proper treatment. His object in
detaining the lady was to force out of the hands of Ed\viird
a kinsman who had been taken prisoner by the English .
But, while his duty to his country and his kinsman rendered
it imperative on him to detain, as prisoner, Lady Winton,
the duty he owed to his own feelings required that he
should treat one whom he had, by the obligations^ war;
deprived of her protector, and reduced <o captivity and

12

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

widowhood, with all the attention and kindness which such
a condition required at the hands of a man of honour.
Everything which a person in her situation required, was
got to contribute to her comfort and assuage her grief.
Female servants were procured to attend her, and to supply
the desires and wants which she might express, or which
might, by anticipating sympathy, be supposed to be incident
to her sex and condition. She was invited to take exercise
on horseback, to attend tournaments and other shows, to
read and amuse herself in such way as her fancy suggested
or her heart inclined. She was introduced to Ramsay's
friends, who, taking pity on her sorrows, spared no pains
in assuaging them : sports were got up for her sake alone,
and many honours and attentions paid her, which her rank,
unaided by the peculiar circumstances of her fate, would
not have commanded or procured ; communications were de-
livered to her relations in England, and answers and gifts,
received in return, carefully put into her possession; while the
most unremitting solicitude was evinced by Ramsay, to make
every amends, by personal attentions, for the sad change he
had been the cause of bringing on the fortunes of her and
her house.

But all these efforts on the part of the generous captor
•were unable to eradicate from the mind of the lady the one
engrossing implacable feeling with which it was occupied —
that he had, by his own hand, taken from her the partner
of her fortunes, her natural protector, and the object of her
love. The slayer of her husband could, in her estimation,
do nothing that was sufficient to wash from his hands that
blood, each drop of which, she cherished more than streams
of her own. The kindness with which she was treated by
the generous warrior was construed, by the perverse work-
ings of a judgment placed in subjection to morbid feelings,
as an intended aggravation of the injury, and an amplifica-
tion of the cause of her grief and insult. Her desire of self-
preservation, and a natural cunning, induced her to conceal
this state of her feelings ; and she received the genuine and
heart-felt attentions of Ramsay with as much apparent
gratitude as she could assume ; but this effort only tended
to aggravate the anger and revenge with which she was
actuated ; and she sighed for liberation more for the sake
of getting them gratified, than of any personal advantages
that might result from a return to her country, and the
enjoyment of liberty.

The introduction of the Knight of Liddesdale to Lady
Winton, took place at the residence of Ramsay, Dalhousie
Castle. She received the illustrious guest with greater
indications of respect than she had shewn to any others of
the nobility who had been introduced to her ; arising as
well from his fame and imposing appearance, as from a
hint she had got in some quarter, that he was not the stead-
fast and genuine friend of her captor he appeared to be.
The sentiments of the three parties who thus met were of
the most heterogeneous character. Ramsay thought of making
his captive as happy as the circumstances of her situation
would permit, occasionally relaxing his mind with the recol-
lection of the playful conversation he had with his companion,
of which the lady formed the subject ; she, on the other
hand, saw in Douglas a person who might serve the purpose
of her revenge against Ramsay ; while the knight was in
deep contemplation of her beauty, and anxious to displace
his friend from the office of her protector. A message
from one of the governors, the Earl of Moray, having called
Ramsay out, the knight and the lady had an opportunity
of comparing their thoughts ; and, however delicate the
subjects lying nearest to their hearts, the desire of revenge
on the one side, and love'on the other, were 'oo strong to be
overcome by ordinary scruples.

" The fortune of war, madam," said Uouglas, " hath
wofully^ changed thy condition ; and we knights, whose
occupation it is to protect the injured and comfort the

sorrowful of thy sex, may not deem it unbecoming or dero-
gatory of our martial character, to offer a tear as a tribute to
the pity which thy sorrows demand from every sympathis-
ing heart ; but, when misfortune is in union with beauty,
the feelings of the knight have arrived at their consummation,
and I would wish thee, sweet lady, to believe that, while I
am thy most abject slave, I am willing to be thy protector
and comforter. What pity it was, that thy husband was de-
prived of life by the hand of my friend !" — looking sorrowful.

" That, good Sir Knight," replied the lady, who saw the
intention of the unnecessary and unfriendly allusion to
Ramsay, " is, in my humble apprehension, no pity. If my
husband was to fall, his fate came as well from the hands
of Sir Alexander Ramsay, as from that of a meaner soldier i
yet, if thou dost indicate that, if another hand had done the
deed, I might have been saved the additional grief of having
a fulsome and affected generosity and kindness applied,
like a soft, poisonous, lying cataplasm, to my irremediable
sores, thou sayest well ; I approve thy speech, and admire
the delicacy of the allusion."

" Thou givest me more credit for a good intention than
my words convey," replied Douglas, well pleased at the hint
he had elicited unfavourable to Ramsay ; " but I am glad
that chance hath, in one instance, acted the part of my
better genius, in making me strike the spring which hath
exhibited to me the sorrows of a fair dame, that I may
bring her succour and relief, save her from the cruel dis-
play of unreal feeling, and bind up her wounded spirit with
genuine sympathy. By St Duthos, madam, thou hast done
what in Scotland is deemed no trivial act — thou hast touched
the heart of a Douglas, and enlisted his feelings of chivalry
in the cause of injured virtue. I understand the nature of
thy complaint ; for I, even I, have been forced to bear the
display of an affected patronage — a conservative friendship —
a bland, unctuous, healing care of my interests, on the part
of thy generous keeper. If a lady cannot brook this, what
is to be expected from the proudest of Scotland's knights —
the flower of chivalry — the Knight of Liddesdale ?"

At this moment Ramsay entered with a benignant face,
as if he had had some intelligence of a pleasing nature to
communicate to Douglas.

" Good news is always welcome," he cried, with a joyful
manner, " and I do not see why the presence of this fair
lady — whose smiles, softened by tears, may gild the gift of
the gods — should prevent me, as Douglas' friend, from at
once informing him that the governor, the Earl of Moray,
hath been pleased to award to thee the sheriffship of Teviot-
dale, in consideration of thy services in expelling from that
arena of contention our English foes."

" And why," interrupted the proud knight, whom the
presence of the lady, as a witness of Ramsay's apparent
patronage, inflamed beyond his usual manner — "why did not
the Earl of Moray, who is in these parts, as doth appear
from thy interview with him, communicate this intelligence
to myself, in place of insulting me by this vicarious com-
munication ?"

" This answer, my good Sir William, I did not expect,"
replied Ramsay, with benignity ; " but, since thou has
allowed thyself to be carried so far by thy feelings as to
impugn the conduct of thy benefactor the governor, as well
as of me thy friend, I conceive myself called upon to state,
what my delicacy had otherwise forced me to withhold, that
this office, with its valuable emoluments, was offered to my-
self, as a reward for my small services in that quarter in
behalf of my country ; but, aware of thy superior claim to
the honour, I waved my privilege of the governor's favours
recommended thee, and my nomination received the neces-
sary approbation. The Earl, being obliged to ride off for
Perth on the instant, requested me to carry to thee the
intelligence. I with the most sincere feelings wish thee joy
of thy jurisdiction, with its concomitants — I mean tLft fee*

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

13

and do hereby forestall the tenderest part of thy first seisin
ox as my guerdon."

" The gift I receive/' said Douglas, doggedly ; " but I
admire neither the mode in which it has been conferred,
nor the manner in which it has been communicated. The
sanction of thy repetition was not needed to what has been
stated by every man and woman between Duunet Head
and the Mull of Galloway — that I expelled the English
from Teviotdale, and had the only right to the sheriffship
of the county I had thus brought back to the kingdom."

" But art thou not bound in gratitude to thy benefactor,"
said Lady Winton, with a peculiar expression of face which
Douglas at once understood, " who hath not only communi-
cated this intelligence to thee, but added the gift itself, all
of his own freewill ? Such disinterested friendship — such
generosity — such' an unctuous healing care of thy fortunes' —
thou wilt not find in broad Scotland, if thou shouldst wander
from the point of Ardnamurchan to Buchanness, which,
though an Englishwoman, I know to be the most eastern
and western points of thy rich and beautiful country !"

'' Hold, good madam," said the unsuspicious Ramsay,
who took her extravagant eulogium for a serious expression
of her sentiments. " If my friend hath underrated my
services, thou hast overshot them as much as does the rain-
bow the apparent earthly extremities of its arch ; but I am
bound to attribute thy goodwill to some overweening grati-
tude for services which I was bound, by the laws of war
and the precepts of humanity, to render to any one in thy
situation. I hope we shall now have done with this matter,
which thus forceth me to speak of myself — a subject cer-
tainly not fitted either for the epopee or the apologue.
We had better refer to Derby's tournay, which is fixed to
take place on Wednesday at Berwick, where thou, Sir
William, art expected to bring under thy corslet a forgiving
heart, and under thy glaive a merciful hand, for both will
be required."

" I shall grant Derby his three courses/' replied Douglas,
with a sneer ; " but, if fortune shall place him under my
spear, I shall make no parade of my generosity in giving him
his legs and his life."

" By my crest, I believe thee !" replied Ramsay, unobserv-
ant of the force of the satire, which was appreciated by
the lady ; " and I hope Lady Winton shall be present to
witness thy triumph. Thou must doff thy weeds, my fair
prisoner, and array thyself in grogram and taffeta. A
damsel in mourning never inspired the heart of a knight."

The tournay alluded to by Ramsay, was held at Berwick,
and is reported by the historian Fordun. Henry de Lan-
caster, Earl of Derby, who was considered, in England, to
be one of the best knights in that kingdom, could not with
patience listen to the praises which were daily rung in his
ears, of the accomplishments and prowess of the Scottish
warriors, Douglas and Ramsay; and, with a view to test his
supposed superiority, invited these rivals to joust with him
at Berwick. The invitation was specific, and contained the
precise terms of the combat. Three courses were to be run
between him and Douglas, in the first instance ; and then
twenty English, with himat their head, were to compete with
twenty Scottish knights, with Ramsay at their head. The
circumstance of a trial of skill formally appointed, and which
was to involve the character not only of the most famous
individuals of the day, but also of two rival nations, pro-
duced throughout Scotland a great sensation ; and people
from all quarters flocked to witness the scene. Preparations
on a great scale were made, and it was even expected that
knights and spectators from the continent would grace
with their presence so brilliant an exhibition.

The scene did not shame the anticipations of the people.
It was on the grandest scale of these magnificent displays.
An immense space of level ground was enclosed with pali-
sades, and around the enclosure were placed, in the form of

an amphitheatre, the seats for the spectators, among whom
the ladies formed the most important personages — their
prerogatives being those of judges, juries, and spectators, aa
well as possessing in their approbation the incitement to
victory. One of these was Lady Winton, who, notwith-
standing the request of Ramsay, had come arrayed in her
weeds._ By these she was rendered remarkable ; and the
attraction which her dress commanded, was riveted by the
beauty she exhibited in her still pale face and dark eyes.
The Knight of Liddesdale kept his eyes upon her, while
she regarded him with a smile, and replied to the indications
of respect of Ramsay with an involuntary shudder, as she
saw displayed those ensigns of war which reminded her of the
death of her husband, who had fallen by his hand. Possessed
of powers of self-control and dissimulation, she succeeded in
restraining further indications of her feelings ; while tho
spectators, who knew the unhappy circumstances of her fate,
awarded her a pity, in which the amiable Ramsay shared to
an extent suitable to his merits, and the peculiar situation in
which he was placed, as the irreproachable destroyer of her
happiness, and her kind but ineffectual comforter.

The forms and ceremonies of the tournay were gone
through with the most minute precision. Derby appeared
first in the area, and his heralds set forth the peal of de-
fiance, calling upon Sir William Douglas to appear and
answer the challenge of Henry de Lancaster, upon the pain
of losing his character and honour of a true knight. In
an instant, the Knight of Liddesdale was at his post of
honour, mounted on a white charger, and arrayed in a costly
suit of plate-armour, a new species that had superseded
the old mailed coat, and appeared to great advantage when
exposed to the rays of the sun. Both knights were dressed in
nearly the same style— the only difference of any moment con-
sisting of the want of a chamfeynor iron frontlet for the black
horse rode by the Earl. This supposed want was noticed
by Douglas, who put Derby on his guard against exposing
the head of his steed; but Derby, bowing gracefully, replied,
that, while he was grateful for the intimation he had
received, he would adhere to his custom of allowing his
horse the pleasure of seeing the discomfiture of his enemy.

This sally roused the blood of Douglas ; losing temper
and presence of mind, he rushed upon his antagonist, and
in a few seconds was wounded severely by a splinter of
his own lance, the pain of which adding to his fury, un-
settled his steady powers of defence, and left him to the
mercy of Derby, who unhorsed him at the first onset. At
that critical moment, Ramsay ran forward, and assisting
Douglas to rise, examined his wound, and declared to the
umpires that it was of such a nature, being in the palm of
the hand, that he could not hold the lance, and therefore
must resign the fight. Douglas, struggling in pain and
anger, opposed this friendly suggestion on the part of Ram-
say ; but, in the meantime, his hand had swollen to such a
size that it would not enter the glaive. On every effort he
made to seize the lance, it fell from his feeble grasp, and
the united testimony of the spectators declared that he
could not continue the contest.

The discomfited knight, having got his hand rolled up in
cloth and swung from his neck, took his seat beside Lady
Winton, to witness the contest between Derby's knights
and the party headed by Ramsay, who were making pre-
parations for the rencounter. A

" Thou hast experienced again the tender mercies of thy
friend," said Lady Winton. « His eye, quick to the dis-
covery of thy misfortune, saw in thy wound what was not
by thee felt. Thou wouldst have recovered thy power, but
the pitchpipe of our good friend's sympathy had raised the
feeling of the assembly to his required key, and thou hast
been groaned and wept out of thy victory. If thy friend
now conquers, he will have achieved the contrast he hath
no doubt sighed for, from the last feast of St John, when

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Derby's challenge reached Scotland, up to this moment of
his expected triumph."

" That man is, indeed, my evil genius," groaned Douglas,
still under the influence of his pain. " His forte is con-
trast— he adroitly makes the evil or the misfortune of
others the foil of his superiority in arms, or his benevolence
of heart. By the heart of King Robert, I would rather
bear the gibes and contumely of declared arrogance and
bare-faced impudence, than this soft chrism of whining,
affected sympathy — this egotistic benevolence and care —
this insulting patronage. But my discomposure is his vic-
tory ; and the peace I may acquire from the bland influence
of thy soft smiles, shall shew that Douglas is above the
power of Ramsay to put him out of humour."

The tournay proceeded amidst the deafening shouts of
the spectators. The twenty knights met, and coursed
against each other with dreadful violence. The conflict
became a sanguinary pastime : two English knights fell
dead on the first shock; and Sir William Ramsay, the
kinsman of Sir Alexander, was struck, through the bars of
his aventaile, by a spear, which penetrated so deep that no
one could suppose that he would survive an instant after it
was extracted. He was confessed immediately in his
armour, with the spear still sticking in the wound, as if to
keep his soul in the body until the unhappy man was
shrieved.

" So help me, Heaven !" said Derby, '" I would desire to
see no fairer sight than this brave man thus shrieved, with
his helmet on his head, and a lance in his body. Happy
man should I be could I ensure myself such an ending."

The moment the victim was confessed, Sir Alexander
Ramsay placed his foot on his kinsman's helmet, and pulled
out the broken lance ; the shrieved warrior started to his
feet, and cried out that he " ailed nothing ;" and, in an
instant, dropped on the ground, a corpse. His body was im-
mediately removed, and the fight proceeded with greater
fury. The English Earl, meeting Ramsay, adroitly fixed
his spear between the clasps of his breastplate, with a view
to throw him back and unhorse him ; but his effort recoiled
on himself — the point of his spear slipped, and the forward
impulse of the warrior, deprived of its resistance, threw him
over the peak of his saddle, and exposed him to Ramsay's
side blow, which was laid on with so much force, that the
conqueror of Douglas fell senseless to the ground, amidst
the shouts of thousands. The stated number of courses
terminated with this triumphant advantage on the part of
Ramsay ; and the umpires awarded the palm to the Scottish
knights.

"Now," said Lady "Winton, "the contrast for which
Ramsay sighed is complete, and he will be present with us
instantly, to enjoy his triumph."

" He will not find his foil then, my good lady," said
Douglas, hastily. " I am for the Castle of Hermitage, and
if my suit hath been successful, as thy smiles have led me
to think it hath, I adjure thee, by our common sentiments
of the proud victor, who will presently be here to insult us,
to trust thyself to my keeping, and journey with me to the
old castle, which, in one of our interviews, he wished me to
yield to him in exchange for thy fair person."

" Heavens !" cried the lady, " did the destroyer of my
husband offer to sell me for an old house ?"

" He did, by the faith of a Douglas !" replied the knight.

" And, by the honour of England, the Scotsman cozens
well," cried the lady. " His kindness was that of the
horse-trader, who proportions his food to his expectations
of price. I would have been well sold, and thou wouldst
have been jockeyed."

When Ramsay came up to the place where his prisoner
and Sir William had sat, he was surprised to find that
they had disappeared ; and when he was told that they had
rode off together for the Castle of Hermitage, his surprise

was increased ; the ingratitude of the lady, joined to the
breach of faith and friendship on the part of his brother i»
arms, stung him with an acutencss proportioned to his own
sense and feeling of those virtues ; and, with his true
nobility of nature, he resolved upon leaving them to the
reaction of such thoughts as a returning consciousness of
his justice and friendship, contrasted with their reprehensi-
ble conduct, would ultimately suggest.

On arriving at the castle, Douglas set apart for the lady
a splendid suite of apartments, giving her out, with some
inconsistency, as his prisoner, whom he was bound to treat
with respect and attention. He soon found that he had a
very peculiar personage to deal with ; the high expectation
he had, from her readiness to accompany him, cherished of
getting the love he bore to her requited as became its
strength, decreased on every effort he made to secure her
affections ; and latterly he became satisfied that she had
consented to accompany him to his residence, principally,
if not solely, from a strong desire to get out of the hands of
Ramsay. There was, however, a motive in the bosom of
Lady Winton stronger than that suspected by Douglas,
but which she had too much cunning to declare. She
sighed secretly for revenge against Ramsay, and fixed upon
the choleric and haughty Knight of Liddesdale to be the
executor of her purpose. She had soon discovered that he
entertained feelings towards his friend the very reverse of
those which the latter entertained towards him ; and she had
already taken care, as far as she could, to add an asperity
to these by the arts already detailed. Her Avork was only
yet begun ; but she augured favourably of the result
from the moment she discovered that she had caught the
affections of the amorous knight, and resolved to use the
power she had thus acquired in furthering her wicked
purpose. The affair of the sheriffship and the tournay
formed a good foundation for her operations ; and she trusted
to the wit of woman to supply the means of raising the super-
structure and attaining her object.

Resistance to Sir William was the first and most effectual
part of her scheme. His affection, true to the nature of
love, burned with an ardour proportioned to the difficulty
that was opposed to its gratification ; and the lady, while
she pretended to be inclined to extinguish it, with the tact
of her sex adroitly trimmed the lamp. Alternating her
modes of action, she softened her manner into an apparent
incipient affection, or preliminary melting and yielding to
the influence of the tender passion ; and, when she had dis-
covered the effect produced on her admirer, she confirmed
and riveted it by a transition to the severity, hardness, and
cruelty of the unwilling dame — thus performing the various
arts of the coquette, and gently and slowly winding
around her victim the chain by which she intended to lead
him to ruin. She felt no affection, and wished to feel
none for any Scotsman. If she intended ever to love again,
her choice would be made in her own country ; but, an
adept in the arts of her sex, she resolved on making them
available for the purposes of her revenge. Douglas, blind to
the practises thus resorted to by an accomplished dissembler,
construed her conduct into natural modesty, sometimes
tinged with a little asperity, produced by his importunate
pressure of his suit; and thus became an easy victim in the
meshes of female cunning. His love increased, and the
lady's manners vacillated between the stern and the soft,
until she thought she had got him safely beyond the
chance of a retrogression.

Arrived at this stage, slie conceived she might safely
begin to make stipulations for the purpose of carrying her
object. Hitherto she had never lost an opportunity of
keeping floating before the mind of her lover those mis-
construed acts of the generous Ramsay which Douglas
considered as insults ; and, in particular, she handled, with
the most consummate skill, the affairs of the sheriffship and

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

15

that of the tournay, whenever she found she had a good
opportunity. Unhappily, there existed in Douglas' mind
a predisposition to inflammation, on the approach of the
subject of Ramsay's well-earned fame for the possession
of nohle qualities ; and a ready ear and a flashing eye
were guarantees to the artful woman of the effect of her
insinuations. He was satisfied, and had been so for a long
time, that, although he excelled his rival in daring dashing
enterprises of Border Avarfare, he was inferior to him in
military art, in generosity, nobility of thought, conversation,
beauty of sentiment; and in the general fame and estimation
of the world for the possession of these. But what galled
him most was, that Ramsay presented always the appear-
ance of one stooping to notice him, or do him a good service ;
the quick intelligence of the eye of one invidious of another's
better parts had attributed to a supposed assumption of supe-
riority what ought to have been imputed to the consciousness
of inferiority, which produced the feeling — a circumstance
soon seen by the actress, who adroitly elevated Ramsay, in
proportion as she wished to make his eleemosynary insults
fall heavier on the mind of Douglas. Carrying forward in
this way her two grand objects — an increase of affection
towards herself, and of hatred towards Ramsay — she looked
forward to the perfection of her scheme, in seeing a junction
of these guarantee a stipulation that she would give up
her heart, (whether really or apparently, was a different
thing,) on condition of her lover taking away the life of
the man who had killed her husband and insulted her
avenger.

The first approach to a stipulation of such a nature, quad-
rating, though it did, with Douglas' strongest inclinations,
was, as the lady knew, the most difficult and dangerous
part of the progress. She relied on her knowledge of man-
kind, crediting the apophthegm, that what the heart wisheth
the judgment will not tarry to confirm, or the hand to
execute ; and, deriving confidence from small indications,
progressed with the noiseless and gradual, yet certain
advancement of the serpent, which is formed to pass through
the smallest apertures, and to cheat both the eye and the
ear of animals of the quickest sensation. Unwilling to risk
all on a last throw, which, contrary to her expectations,
might turn out unsuccessful, she felt inclined to be con-
tented at first with a lesser chance, and hugged with joy her
achievement, when she heard Douglas say, as he hung
round her neck, alternately burning with love and revenge,
the results of her powers of excitement, that, on the next
occasion of an insult on the part of Ramsay, he would
punish him with death on the spot.

" When that shall happen," she exclaimed, with fervour,
" the heart of Dame Winton is no longer her own."

" And with such a guerdon in view," exclaimed Douglas,
clasping her eagerly to his bosom, " it would not be like a
true lover to be dainty in his relish of the insult which is
to produce so important an effect."

It now remained for this female schemer to bring about
such a train of circumstances as would produce an occasion
for Douglas redeeming the fatal pledge he had made in the
conversation, now detailed — and this she felt the easiest
part of her task. It happened at that time that an Eng-
lish lady, occupying the high office of one of the maids
of honour to the Scottish Queen, was at the Castle on
her way to Scone. This lady's name was Clarissa Sofley ;
and, being an old friend of Lady Winton's, she was
entirely devoted to her service. Her power over the Eng-
lish Joanna was known to be great, arising from a com-
munity of English ideas and feelings, strengthened by long
habits of intimacy and endless conversations about national
objects of cherished attachment Many of the Queen's
secrets were confided by the maid of honour to her English
friend ; and, among the rest, it was communicated that, of
all the knights and nobles of Scotland, Sir Alexander Ram-

say was the greatest favourite of the Queen. This fact
was in a short time stated by Lady Winton to Douglas, with
a view to keep alive the feeling which she was shortly to
inflame to an extent suited to her purpose.

Douglas, attached to his new love, remained in a state
of inactivity at the castle, while his rival, Ramsay, was
" up and doing," with all the usual energy of his character,
burning to free his country from the thraldom of the Eng-
lish, and to procure for himself a high degree of favour in
the estimation of King David, who, having arrived only
shortly before from France, was in a manner new to his
country and to its inhabitants. The daring exploits of
Ramsay, which were attended with general success, filled
the mouths of the people, and found their way, loaded with
acclamations, to the throne ; but, above all, his triumph in
reducing Roxburgh Castle, a fortress of great strength and
importance, by a daring night escalade, was universally
deemed the most illustrious achievement of those times, and
formed the prevailing theme of conversation in Scotland for
many a day. As soon as the intelligence reached the Her-
mitage, it was communicated by Lady Winton to Douglas,
with such circumstantial details as would add to the flame
of envy it could not fail to produce in the mind of the
knight. But Clarissa Sofley was the person whom she
wished to interest, to the greatest degree, in this affair.
She represented to her that Ramsay's conduct deserved not
only praise but reward from his sovereign, and that} in
consequence of the kindness he had shewn to her while she
remained his prisoner, she herself felt so much interest in
his advancement that she could not but press upon the
maid of honour the justice and expediency of prevailing
upon Queen Joanna, already his friend, to get the King to
award to him some mark of favour more substantial than
empty words of praise. Douglas, she continued, was sick
of the details of the sheriffship of Teviotdale, and she knew
for certain that Ramsay sighed for nothing more fervently
than that jurisdiction. It seemed, therefore, a favourite op-
portunity for pleasing all parties. The King would do an
act of justice in awarding to so good a soldier this honour.
Ramsay would be pleased and filled with gratitude, which
would nerve his arm for greater enterprises ; and Douglas
would be relieved from a duty the discharge of which
was not suited to his habits of life. She concluded by
extorting from the maid of honour a promise to use every
energy in her power, when she arrived at Scone, to
gratify her friend by getting this scheme of gratitude
accomplished. Next day, Clarissa Sofley departed for the
royal residence.

In a very short time afterwards, Lady Winton received
a letter from her friend, informing her that David had, with
the aid of very little solicitation, conferred on Sir Alexander
Ramsay, for his conduct in reducing Roxburgh Castle, the
sheriffship of Teviotdale. Repairing with alacrity to Dou-
glas, she told him the extraordinary news, garnishing her
communication with such commentaries as would bring out,
in the strongest light, the injustice to Douglas of the grant,
the dishonour and disgrace it entailed upon him, and the
necessity of resorting to some mode of revenge. It was
clear, she stated, that the King must have previously known
that Ramsay wished for, if he did not solicit the honour,
and been informed that Douglas wished to resign it ; for it
was impossible otherwise to account for so extraordinary an
act on the part of a monarch who could not afford to lose
any of his knights by so gratuitous an inversion of the rules
of justice. But all this was supererogation. The mind of
Douglas was too fervent, and his sense of dishonour t<
acute, to require anything more to inflame it to the highest
degree than the simple announcement of this unexpec
intelligence.

"Behold," cried he, "the last, the greatest of Ramsay s
triumphs ! The boon I received kneeling from his gen

16

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

sity is snatched back by the lying devices of another hand.
My sovereign hath been imposed upon ; his royal signet
used for private purposes of aggrandisement ; and Douglas
attempted to be tricked by the hiccius doccius who hath
juggled him for years. "What more is required to rouse me
to the vindication of my honour, the punishment of the
criminal devices of low villany cloaked with generosity,
the gratification of my revenge, and the consummation of
my love ?"

" One other thing," answered Lady Winton — " and that,
too, is forthcoming. That Eamsay shall wait on thee, and
make offer generously to resign the royal grant into hands
which he knoweth are convulsively clutching the dagger of
revenge, and therefore must be rejected."

" Right, good lady," answered Douglas, energetically ;
" that is awanting, and will be supplied. Thou knowest
the murderer of thy husband better than I do the destroyer
»f my honour, and the intruder upon my rights and pri-
vileges. By the sword of the Good Sir James, he shall have
his response — his reward ! Is there need of more words
from a Douglas ?"

The remark of Lady Winton was verified sooner than
could have been expected. Ramsay had himself been sur-
prised at the gift of the King, and had resolved not to accept
it unless he ascertained that Douglas truly wished to resign
his office. His sense of honour was too fine to allow him
to hesitate an instant on the step he should follow ; and,
telling the King's messenger that he required time to delibe-
rate about receiving the honour intended to be conferred
on him, he threw himself upon a horse, and journeyed with
all speed to the Castle of Hermitage.

" My King," he said, on meeting Douglas, " hath taken
it into his royal head that I am possessed of an especial
desire for thy office of sheriffship. God mend the times !
Why is it that my thoughts are thus travestied by royal
ingenuity, and my honour and friendship put into jeopardy
by officious favour ? I fear, also, that thy ideas have expe-
rienced the menstruum of the royal will, and undergone
some metamorphosis, for which thou art not answerable ;
for it doth appear that it hath been represented that thou
dost wish to resign thy post of honour and emolument,
which, with thy good sword, thou didst fight for, when the
sheriffdom over which thy jurisdiction extends was, by
thy prowess, cleared of our national enemies. I judge of
the truth of thy imputed sentiments by that of my own ;
and I do, upon the honour of a Ramsay, declare that the
authority of David Bruce shall not invest me with those
honours which thy arm hath achieved."

'' By my faith, Ramsay," replied Douglas, " thou art a
right generous knight; and do, moreover, possess a most
potent, I should say a most miraculous power of producing
opportunities of shewing forth thy noble sentiments; for thou
dost not hesitate to imitate some of the old kings, who robbed
their subjects, and then generously handed to them their own
in the form of a royal donation. I received this sheriffship at
thy hands before — God bless the bounty ! — and I cannot pre-
vail upon myself to tax thy generosity with a repetition of the
same gift. He who bore the heart of good King Robert, and
who, as a penance for the sins of his master, resolved to
fight and beg his way to the Holy Land, did not bequeath
the badge of the ' blue-gown' or any other beggar to his son.
I got only his sword, and, God pity me! I once was foolish
enough to think I could fight my way, with that good
Damascus, through the necessities of illegitimacy, without
being obliged to have recourse to mendicancy. I cannot
yet resign that thought; for my sword, believe me, is
neither blunt nor rusty, though, peradventure, thou dost
believe, if I may trust my sense of injury and insult, that
it is both. Go, sir, and take possession of thy sheriffdom ;
and may the prayer of a Douglas be answered, when it
expresseth his desire that the first precept directed from

chancery may be to infeft thy son and heir in the land
of thy family in Teviotdale."

" These taunts, Sir William," said Ramsay, " but ill
become our friendship or my errand. I forgive thee,
because"

"Dost thou, most generous youth?" interrupted Sir
William. " How much do I owe thee for all the gratuitous
awards of thy beneficence ? Honour demands an account,
and I cannot stoop to acceptilation. I shall appear in thy
court-room at Hawick, and pay thee over the bar of justice —
though that may be the sacred desk of the prelate. The
Church loves justice. No more."

As Douglas uttered these words, he rushed abruptly out
of the room. Ramsay, unconscious of having done anything
to produce anger, felt sorry for the effects of some mis-
understanding, which he would have been glad to explain.
There was, however, something due to his own dignity
He returned to Dalhousie, fully resolved not to accept the
sheriffship, and sent an intimation to that effect to Scone.
After some time, he received intimation that Douglas had
refused to officiate [as sheriff; and the King called upon
him, as a faithful subject, to stand forth and prevent the
impeding of the course of justice in one of the most troubled
of his counties. This appeal it was impossible to resist ; and
Ramsay allowed himself to be invested with his new honours.

The hints which Douglas had thrown out in his convers-
ation with Ramsay, might have led the latter to suspect
that the proud baron whom he had thus, against his own
will, superseded in a high office, would resort to some mode
of revenge ; and it is asserted by historians, that notice
was absolutely given to the new sheriff that his enemy
resolved to punish him in the very scene of his judicial
labours. Ramsay, however, trusted to Douglas having, in
a manner, resigned the office, by refusing to fulfil its duties;
and it has been also asserted that Douglas subsequently
pretended to be reconciled to him. It is certain, at all
events, that Ramsay feared nothing, and made no prepar-
ations, by having a guard about him, to resist any inter-
ference with his person or judicial avocations — a fatal
security, destined to be lamented by Scotland, so long as
the fate of one of her best men and most accomplished
warriors continued to be remembered. In the meantime,
Douglas was deeply intent upon the execution of his pur-
pose. He led a band of armed retainers to Hawick, where
he knew that the new sheriff held his court in the open
church. On entering, Ramsay invited him, with an easy
and friendly manner, to take his seat alongside of him ; on
which Douglas drew his sword, seized his victim, who was
wounded in attempting a vain resistance, and, throwing
him, while the blood flowed from his wounds, across a horse,
hurried him off to the Castle of Hermitage,, where he thrust
him into a dungeon. There he was left to die of hunger.
No one was allowed, by the proud and implacable baron,
to approach him ; and it is asserted that the dastardly
executioner and Lady Winton sat at a low casement, in
front of the castle, for the purpose of being regaled by the
cries of the dying man. A circumstance occurred which
contributed to the extension of his agonies, and the pleasure
of his enemies. It happened that there was a granary
above his prison, from which some particles of corn fell
through the chinks and crevices of the floor. On these the
miserable man protracted a wretched existence for the space
of seventeen days. The cessation of his groans apprised his
implacable foes that hunger had wrung from their victim
the last spark of life.

WILSON'S

, anti

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

CHATELARD.

SOME time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had esta-
blished her court at Holyrood, on her return from France,
to ascend the throne of her ancestors, a stranger arrived at
a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by one Goodal, at the
foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had
/ast come from Leith, where he had been landed from a
French vessel some two or three hours previously. He
was a young man, probably about three or four and twenty,
tall and handsome in person, of a singularly pleasing coun-
tenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like
demeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke
the presence of genius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very
high order ; while his general manners indicated a refined
and cultivated mind. There was marked, however, on the
brow of the interesting stranger, very palpable traces of
saddening thoughts — his whole countenance, indeed, exhibit-
ing the characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy;
but it was of a gentle kind, and bore no likeness to the
stern gloominess of disappointed ambition. His sadness
was evidently a sadness of the heart — the result of some
grievous pressure on its best and tenderest feelings and
affections.

After having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger
desired a small measure of wine to be brought him. This
order was executed by mine host in person ; and, indeed,
from what afterwards followed, it seemed to have been
given with an express view to that result ; for, on the land-
lord's placing the wine before his guest, the latter re-
quested him, with great politeness of manner, to sit down
and share it with him ; saying, that he wanted a little
information on two or three particular points. Mine host,
seating himself as desired, expressed his readiness to afford
him any information of which he himself was possessed.
Having thanked the former for his civility, and pressed him,
not in vain, to taste of his own wine, the stranger said—
" Is the Queen, my friend, just now at Holyrood?"
He was answered in the affirmative. The querist
paused, sighed, and next inquired if she walked much
abroad — what were the hours she devoted to that recrea-
tion— whether she was accompanied by many attendants
on these occasions — and whether her ordinary promenade
was a place easy of access." Having been informed on all
these points, he again relapsed into thought, and again
sighed profoundly. After a short time, however, he once
more recovered himself, and suddenly exclaimed, but more
by way of soliloquy than inquiry —

" Is she not beautiful — transcendantly beautiful ?"
Mine host, who was not a little surprised by the abrupt-
ness of the question, and the enthusiasm of manner in
which it was expressed, replied, that she surely was " Just
as bonny a creature as he had ever clapt ee on — a plump,
sonsy, nice-lookin lass."

A slight expression of disgust, or rather of horror, at the
homely terms employed by mine host in speaking of the
beauty of the Queen, passed over the countenance of his
guest. It was, however, but momentary, and was not
observed, or at any rate not understood, by him whose
language had called it forth.
107. VOL. III.

" Ay, beautiful is she," went on the enthusiastic stranger,
leaning back in his chair, and gazing on the roof, in a fit
of ecstasy, and in seeming unconsciousness of the presence
of a third party — " beautiful is she to look upon, as is the
rising sun emerging from the purpled east ; beautiful as hi*
setting amidst the burnished clouds of the west ; lovely
as the full moon hanging midway in her field of azure •
grateful to the sight as the green fields of spring, or the
flowers of the garden ; and pleasant to the ear are the tones
of her voice, as the song of the nightingale in the grove, or
the sound of the distant waterfall."

Here the speaker paused in his rhapsody, continued
silent for some moments, then suddenly returning, as it
were, to a sense of the circumstances in which he was
placed, he brought his hands over his forehead and eyes, as
one recovering from an agony of painful and melancholy
thoughts. Surprised by this extraordinary conduct of his
guest, the landlord of the house began to conceive that he
had got into the company of a madman ; yet he marvelled
much what description of madness it could be, since it was
made evident only when the Queen was spoken of — the
stranger speaking on all other subjects rationally and com-
posedly.

" She walks not much abroad, you say, my friend ?"
said the latter, resuming the conversation which he had
broken off to give utterance to the rhapsody which has
just been quoted.

" Very seldom, sir," replied mine host ; " for, ye see, she
doesna fin' hersel quite at hame yet amang us ; but she'll
come to, by and by, I've nae doot."

" And she is not easy of access, you say : no chance of
one being able to throw himself in her way ?"

" Unco little, I should think," replied mine host, " unless
she could be fa'n in wi' gaun to the chapel to mass ; for
she still abides by thae abominations, for a' John Knox can
say till her." A flush of resentment and indignation
crossed the pale countenance of the stranger, at the last
expressions of the innkeeper, and he threw a glance at
him, strongly expressive of these feelings, but suddenly
checked himself, paused for a moment, and then resumed
his queries in the calm and gentle tones which seemed
natural to him —

" How likes she the country, know ye ?"

" Indeed, I canna weel say," replied mine host ; " but 1
rather doot, frae what I hear, she's no a'thegither reconciled
till't yet. She thinks, I dare say, we're rather a rough-spun
set o' folk — a wee thing coorse i' the grain or sae."

"Ay, that ye are, that ye are," said the stranger, with
more candour than courtesy, again throwing himself back in
his chair, and again beginning to rhapsodise as before. " She
is among ye — the beautiful, the gentle, the accomplished,
the refined — as a fawn amongst a herd of bears. She is in
your wild and savage land, like a lovely and tender flower
growing in the cleft of a rock — a sweet and gentle thing,
blooming alone in the midst of rudeness and barrenness. O
uncongenial soil! O discordant association! Dearest,
crudest, loveliest of thy sex!"

If mine host was amazed at the first outpouring of Jus
guest's excited mind, it will readily be believed that it was
not lessened by this second ebullition of fervour and passion.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

He, in truth, now became convinced that he was'distracted ;
and, under this impression, felt a strong desire to he quit of
him as soon as possible. With this view, he took an early
opportunity of stealing unobserved out of the apartment — a
feat which he found no difficulty in performing, as his guest
seemed ultimately so wholly wrapt up in his own thoughts
as to be quite unconscious of what was either said or done
in his presence. Soon after mine host had retired, the
stranger ordered paper, pen, and ink, to be brought him.
They were placed upon his table, he himself the while
•walking up and down the apartment with measured stride
and downcast look, as if again lost in profound and per-
plexing thought ; and, at intervals, the sound of his foot-
steps, thus traversing his chamber, was heard throughout
the whole of the night. The stranger had slept none ; he had
not even retired to seek repose ; but those periods during the
night — and they were of considerable length — in which all
was silent in his apartment, were employed in writing ; and,
when morning came, the result of his labours was exhibited
in a letter, curiously or rather fancifully folded, tied with a
green silk thread, and highly perfumed. This letter was
addressed on the back — " To the Most Illustrious Princess,
Mary, Queen of Scotland."

Having brought the proceedings of the stranger to this
point, we will shift the scene to the sitting apartment^ of
the Queen in Holyrood. Here, surrounded with her maids,
the young and lovely Princess was, at the moment of which
we speak, engaged in working embroidery, and laughing
and chatting with her attendants, amongst whom were two
or three young French ladies, who had accompanied her
from France. The Queen and her maids were thus
employed, then, when the gentleman usher, who stood at the
door of the apartment, entered, and, with a low obeisance,
presented a letter to the Queen. It was the same as that
addressed to her by the stranger, and above referred to.
The Queen took the letter, Avith a gracious smile, from the
person presenting it, and, contemplating it for a moment,
before she opened it, with a look of pleased surprise—

" This, sure," she said, " is from none of our Scottish
subjects : the fold is French." And she sighed. " It has
the cut and fashion of the billet doux of St Germains ; and,"
she added, laughing, " the precise flavour, too, I declare,
But I should know this handwriting," she went on — •' I
have seen it before. This, however, will solve the mystery."
And she tore the letter open, and was instantly employed in
reading it, blushing and smiling by turns, as she proceeded
with the perusal. When she had done — " Maria," she
said, raising her eyes from the paper, and addressing one of
her French ladies, " who think you is this letter from ?"

" I cannot guess, madam," replied the young lady ap-
pealed to.

" Do try," rejoined Mary.

" Nay, indeed, I cannot," said the former, now pausing
in her work, and looking laughingly at her mistress.
" Perhaps from the Count Desmartine, or from Dufour, or
Dubois."

" No, no, no," replied the Queen, laughing — " neither of
these, Maria; but I will have compassion on your curiosity
and tell you. \\rould you believe it ? — it is from Chatelard,
the poet."

" Chatelard !" repeated the maiden, in amazement.
" What, in all the earth, can have brought him here ?"

' ' Nay, I know not," said the Queen, blushing ; for she
guessed, or rather feared the cause. " But read and judge
for yourself," she added, handing her attendant the letter,
which contained a very beautiful laudatory poem, full of
passion and feeling, addressed ;o herself, and which the
writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted
to form part of her court ; declaring that it would be joy
inexpressible to him to be near her person — he cared not in
how mean a capacity. The having opportunities of seeing

and serving her, he said, would reconcile him to any degrad-
ation of rank — to any loss, save that of honour.

" In truth, very pretty verses," said the waiting maid,
returning the poem to the Queen ; " but, mcthinks, some
what over-bold."

" Why, I do think so too, Maria," replied Mary. " Chate-
lard rather forgets himself; but poets, you know, have a
license, and I cannot be harsh to the poor young man. It
would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me."

" But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached
to your court?"

" Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed,"
rejoined the Queen. " Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a
gentleman, both by birth and education. He is accomplished
in a very high degree, and of a graceful person and pleasing
manners, and would thus do no discredit to our court ; but,
I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions — for he
is a child of passion as well as song — that might lead him-
self into danger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I can-
not think of rejecting altogether his humble suit, so prettily
preferred ; and, if he would promise to conduct himself with
becoming gravity and reserve in all matters and at all times,
I should have no objection that he was attached to our
court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a short
space."

Having said this, the Queen, now addressing the ladies
present, generally, went on—

"Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant ;
but I pray ye take care of your hearts ; for he is, I warrant
ye, one especially given to purloining these little commodi-
ties. He is handsome, accomplished, and a poet ; so mind
ye ladies, I have warned you — be on your guard. Kerr"—
she now called out to a page in waiting — " go to the hostelry,
whence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by
whom it has been sent, that we desire to see him forthwith.
Let him accompany you, Kerr."

The page instantly departed ; and we will avail ourselves
of his short absence on this mission, to say briefly who
Chatelard was — what was his object in coming to the
Scottish court — and of what nature were the fears which
the Queen expressed regarding him.

Chatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank,
of rare accomplishments, and a poet of very considerable
excellence. His seeking to attach himself to Mary's court,
was the result of a violent and unhappy attachment to her
person; and her fears for him, proceeding from a suspicion
of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by
some rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased
with his presumptuous love, yet found she could not. as a
woman, but look on it with pity and compassion ; and hence
her disposition to treat with kindness and affability its un-
happy victim. Prudence, indeed, would certainly have
dictated another course than that Mary pursued with Chate-
lard, in thus admitting him to her presence ; but Mary's error
here was an error of the heart, and more to be regretted
than blamed.

In a short while after the messenger had been dispatched
with the invitation to Chatelard, the door of the Queen's
apartment was thrown wide open, and that person entered.
His bow to the Queen was exceedingly graceful ; and not
less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in their
expression of deference, were those he directed to her
ladies. Chatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused
with a blush, and it was evident he was under the excite-
ment of highly agitated feelings ; but he lost not, for a
moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence of mind ;
neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself
at this interview with the most perfect propriety.

" Chatelard," said the Queen, after the ceremonies of a
first salutation were over, " I perceive you have lost none
of your cunning in the gentle craft. These were really

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

19

pretty lines you sent me — choice in expression, and melo
diously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece."
" How could it he otherwise, madam/' replied Chatelard
bowing low, "with such a subject?"

" Nay, nay," said Mary, laughing and blushing at thi
same time — " I am no subject, Chatelard, but an anointec
Queen. Thou canst not make a subject of me."

Chatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, " You
wit, madam, has thrown me out ; but, avoiding this pla^
on words, my position is good, undeniable. All men
acknowledge it."

" Go to — go to, Chatelard — thou wert ever a flatterer
But 'tis a poet's trade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer
however ; for thou dost praise so prettily that one canno
suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee, even when
thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in
the meantime. Ye may now retire ; and I think the soonei
the better, for the safety of these fair maidens' hearts, ane
your own peace of mind, which a longer stay might endanger
Our chamberlain will provide thee with suitable apartments
and see to thy wants. Mark," she added, laughingly, " we
retain thee in our service in the capacity of our poet — o
court poet — a high and honourable appointment ; and thy
reward shall be the smiles and approbation of these fair
ladies — the beauty of all and each of whom I expect thou
wilt forthwith embalm in immortal verse."

Chatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the
Queen, again addressing him, said — " We will send for thee
again in the afternoon, to bear us company for a while,
when thou wilt please bring with thee some of thy newesl
and choicest madrigals."

Expressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be
conferred on him, of the Queen's kind condescension, and
avowing his devotedness to her service, Chatelard with-
drew, and was provided with the promised apartments by
the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments
xve shall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On
being left alone, Chatelard again fell into one of those
reveries which we have already described, and again launched
into that strain of extravagant adulation which, on another
occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he
compared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything
that is beautiful in earth, sea, and sky ; but comparing her
to these only that he might assert how far she surpassed
them. There were mingled, too, with his eulogiums, on
this occasion, expressions of that imprudent passion which
subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring
offences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor
Chatelard's ravings, in the instance of which we are just
speaking, were unconsciously uttered ; but they were
unfortunately loud enough to arrest the attention of the
domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby into
which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted
by his rapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time,
at his door, and were highly amused with the rhapsodies
of the imprudent poet. The latter, becoming more and
more vehement, and, in proportion, more entertaining, the
domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the door, to
the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter,
overheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose
to utter. That, however, was so incoherent, or at least of
BO high-flown a character, that the listeners could make
nothing of it ; and, as they could not, they immediately
concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker a madman.
But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment,
who, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension,
at once discovered the meaning that lurked under the florid
language of the poet's ill-timed soliloquies.

While the servants were crowded around the door of
Chatelard's apartment, too intent on their amusement to
notice the approach of any one, another party had advanced

unseen to within a few paces of where they stood. Here
with his arms folded across his breast, he had remained
unobserved for several seconds, gazing with a look of sur-
prise and displeasure on the merry group assembled around
the poet's door. He was, however, at length discovered,
when the knot of listeners instantly broke up in the greatest
hurry and alarm.

" How now," exclaimed the unexpected intruder — a
person of about thirty years of age, of rather slender form,
of cold and haughty demeanour, and austere countenance-
How now ?" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones were
naturally severe— < what means this idling ?— what do ye
all here, knaves, in place of attending to your duties?"

Instead of answering this question, the terrified domestics
were now endeavouring to make off in all directions ; but
the querist's curiosity, or, perhaps, suspicion, having been
excited by what he had seen, he instantly arrested their
progress, by calling on them, in a voice of increased severity
and vehemence, to stop.

" Come^hither, Johnstone," he exclaimed, addressing one
of the fugitives — " I must know what ye have been all
about." And, without waiting for an answer, "Who occupies
this apartment ?" he inquired, pointing to that in which
was Chatelard.

"An' please ye, my Lord," replied Johnstone, bowing
with the most profound respect — " ane that we tbink's no
very wise. He's been bletherin aAva there to himsel, saving
yer Honour's presence, like a bubbly-jock, for this half hour
back, and we can neither mak tap tail, nor mane o' what
he's sayin."

" What ! a madman, Johnstone ?" said the Earl of
Murray, the Queen's half-brother, for it was no less a per-
sonage; then hurriedly added — "Who is he ? — what is he —
where is he from? — when came he hither?"
The man answered categorically —

" I dinna ken, my Lord, wha he is ; but, frae the thinness
o' his chafts, I tak him to be ane o' your French laun-
loupers. He cam to the palace aboot twa hours syne."

The Earl's curiosity was now still further excited, and,
without saying a word more, he drew near to the door of
Chatelard's apartment, and became also an auditor of the
poor poet's unguarded language ; but not such as it was in
the case of the listeners who had preceded him ; to him
that language was perfectly intelligible — at least, to the
extent of informing him of Chatelard's ambitious love. To
Murray this was a secret worth knowing ; and, in the hope
that he might discover this attachment to be reciprocal,
and thus acquire an additional influence over the Queen,
his sister, at the expense of her reputation, he considered
it a singularly fortunate incident. Perhaps he expected
that it would do even more for him than this :. that it
would eventually help him to the accomplishment of certain
daring views towards the crown itself, of which he was not
unsuspected. AVhether, however, he was able to trace, in
distinct and definite lines, any consequences favourable to
himself from the fact which had just come to his know-
ledge, it is certain he was pleased with the discovery,
and considered it as an important acquisition. That he
viewed it in this light, indeed, was evident even by his
countenance, cautiously guarded as its expressions ever

were.

On being satisfied of the fact of Chatelard's attachment
to the Queen, he withdrew from the door with a look and
brief expression of satisfaction, and went directly in quest
of the chamberlain. On finding whom —

" So, Mr Chamberlain," he sakl, " we have got, I find,
another animal added to our herd of fawning, drivelling
courtiers. Pray, who or what is he, this person who has
taken up his quarters in the northern gallery, and by whose
authority has he been installed there?"

" Bv the Queen's, my Lord," replied the Chamberlain.

'20

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" I have had express and direct orders from the Queen her-
self, to provide the gentleman with apartments in the palace,
and to see to his suitable entertainment."

" Ah, indeed," said the Earl, biting his lip, and musing for
a moment. " By her own express orders !" he repeated.
" It is very well." Then, after a pause — " Know ye this
favoured person's name, Mr Chamberlain ?"

" Chatelard," replied the latter.

" Chatelard ! Chatelard !" repeated the Earl, mechani-
cally, and again musing ; " why, I think I have heard of
that gallant before. He is one of those triflers called poets,
methinks — a versifier, a scribbler of jingling rhymes. Is it
not so ?"

" I have heard the Queen say so, my Lord," replied the
Chamberlain. " She has spoken of him in my hearing as
a poet."

" Ah ! the same, the same," said the Earl ; " but how
obtained he access to the Queen, know ye ?"

" Through his own direct application, my Lord. He
addressed a poetical epistle to her Majesty, I understand,
from Goodal's hostelry, where he had taken up his quarters
in the first place, requesting permission to wait upon
her."

" And it was granted ?" interrupted the Earl.

' ' It was, my Lord ; and he has already had an audience."

" Ah ! so !" said the Earl, without yet betraying or hav-
ing, during any part of this conversation, betrayed the
slightest emotion or symptom of the deep interest he took
in the communications which were being made to him.
" Know ye," he went on, '' if that favour is to be soon again
conferred on him ? When will he again be admitted to the
presence "

" That, my Lord, rests on the Queen's pleasure ; rt but I
hear say that he is to attend her again this evening in her
sitting apartment."

" So, so," said the Earl, nodding his head, as he uttered
the words. And, turning on his heel, he walked away with-
out further remark.

From the officer with whom he had just been speaking,
the Earl of Murray carefully concealed the motives which
had prompted his inquiries, but determined, henceforth, to
watch with the utmost vigilance the proceedings of the
Queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should
occur that might put them both fairly within his power.
Unaware of the dangerous surveillance under which he was
already placed, it was with a delight which only he him-
self perhaps could feel, that Chatelard received, in the
evening, the promised invitation from the Queen to attend
her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation
was conveyed in some playful verses — an art in which Mary
excelled — written on embossed paper. The enthusiastic
poet read the delightful lines a thousand times over, dwelt
with rapture on each word and phrase, and finally kissed
the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour
of a highly excited and uncontrollable passion. Having
indulged in these tender sensibilities for seme time, Chate-
lard at length folded up the unconscious object of his adora-
tion, thrust it into his bosom, took up a small porlfeuille,
covered with red Morocco leather, gilt and embossed, the
depository of his poetical effusions — and hurried to the
apartment of the Queen, where he was speedily set to the
task of reading his compositions, for the entertainment oi
the assembled fair ones ; and it is certain that on more than
one of them, the tender and impassioned manner of the
bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to his
highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made
an impression by no means favourable to their night's repose
It would, however, perhaps, be more tedious than interest-
ing to the reader, were we to detail all that passed on the
night in question in the Queen's apartment ; to record al
the witty and pleasant thiriStf that were said and done b

the Queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say
that the latter retired at a pretty late hour ; his imprudent
passion, we cannot say increased — for of that it would not
admit — but strengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes.

From that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed
that his love was returned — that he had inspired in the
bosom of Mary a passion as ardent as his own. Into this
unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed imagina-
tion had betrayed him, by representing in the light of
special marks of favour, occurrences that were merely the
emanations of a kind and gentle nature — thus fatally
misled by a passion which, if notorious for occasioning
groundless fears, is no less so for inspiring unfounded
hopes. Such, at any rate, was its effect in the case of
Chatelard on the night in question. On gaining his
own chamber, he flung himself into a chair, and spent
nearly the whole of the remainder of the night in the
indulgence of the wildest and most extravagant dreams of
future bliss ; for, in the blindness of his passion and
tumult of his hopes, he saw no dangers and feared no
difficulties.

From this time forward, Chatelard's conduct to the Queen
became so marked and unguarded in various particulars, as
to excite her alarm, and even to draw down upon the
offender some occasional rebukes, although these were at
first sufficiently gentle and remote. Nor did the impru-
dencies of the infatuated poet escape the cold, keen eye of
Murray. He saw them, and noted them ; but took care to
wear the semblance of unconsciousness. It was not his
business to interupt, by hinting suspicions, the progress of
an affair which he hoped would, on some occasion or other,
lead to consequences that he might turn to account. Feel-
ing this, it was not for him to help Chatelard and the Queen
to elude his vigilance and defeat his views, by discovering
what he observed, and thus putting them on their guard.
This was not his business ; but it was his business to lie
concealed, and to spring out on his quarry the instant that
its position invited to the effort. Coldly and sternly, there-
fore, he watched the motions of Chatelard and his sister ;
but was little satisfied to perceive nothing in the conduct
of the latter regarding the former which at all spoke of the
feelings he secretly desired to find. As it was impossible,
however, for the Earl personally to watch all the movements
of Chatelard, he looked around him for some individual of
the Queen's household whom he might bribe to perform
the duties of a spy ; and such a one he found amongst the
attendants whom Mary had brought with her from France,
of which country he was also a native. The name of this
ungrateful and despicable wretch, who undertook to betray
a kind and generous mistress, whenever he should discover
anything in her conduct to betray, was Choisseul — a man
of pleasing manners and address, but of low and vicious
habits. Without any certain knowledge of his character,
or any previous information regarding him, the Earl of
Murray's singular tact and penetration at once singled him
out as a likely person for his purposes. On this presumption,
he sent for him, and cautiously and gradually opening him
up, found that he had judged correctly of his man.

" Choisseul," he said, on that person's being ushered
into his presence, " I have good reason to think that you
are one in whom I may put trust ; and, in this assurance,
I have selected you for an especial mark of my confidence.
Do you knoAv anything of this Chatelard who has lately
come to court ?"

" I do, my Lor*, tie is countryman of my own."
' So I understand. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is,
Choisseul : — I believe the fellow has come here for no good ;
I believe, in short, that he has designs upon the Queen.
Now, my good fellow, will you undertake to ascertain this
for me. Will you watch their proceedings, watch them
narrowly, and give me instant information of anything sus

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

21

picious that may come to your knowledge — and ye shall not
miss of your reward ?" added the Ear], now opening a little
desk which stood before him, and taking from it a well-
filled purse.

Choisseul, with many bows and grimaces, readily under-
took to play the knave, and, with still more, took the price
of his knavery, the purse already alluded to, which the
Earl now handed him.

" Now, Choisseul," said Murray, just before dismissing
the miscreant, " I may depend on you ?"

" Mine honneur," replied the Frenchman, placing his
hand on his breast, with a theatrical air, and bowing to the
ground as he pronounced the words — " Je suis votre serviteur
till die."

" Enough," said the Earl, waving his hand as a signal to
him to retire ; <f be vigilant and prompt in communicating
with me when you have anything of consequence to say."

Choisseul again bowed low, and left the apartment. In
the meantime, the gallant, accomplished, but imprudent
Chatelard, hurried blindly along by the impetuosity of his
passion, and altogether unsettled by the intoxicating belief
that his love was returned — a belief which had now taken
so fast a hold of his understanding that nothing could
loosen it — proceeded from one impropriety to another, till
he at length committed one which all but brought matters
to a crisis ; and this was avoided only by its having escaped
the vigilance of Choisseul, and having been compassionately
concealed by the Queen herself.

On retiring one night, early in February 1563, to her
sleeping apartment, Mary and her attendants were suddenly
alarmed by an extraordinary movement in a small closet or
wardrobe, in which was kept the clothes the Queen was in
the habit of daily using. The maids would have screamed
out and fled from the apartment, but were checked in both
of these feminine resorts by observing the calm and collected
manner of their mistress, in which there was not the slightest
appearance of perturbation.

" Ladies, ladies," she exclaimed, laughingly, as her
attendants were about to rush out of the room, " what a
pretty pair of heroines ye are ! Shame, shame ! — ye surely
would not leave your mistress alone, in the midst of such a
perilous adventure as this. Come hither," she added, at
the same time stepping towards her toilet, and taking up a
small silver lamp that burned on it, " and let us see who
this intruder is — whether ghost or gallant."

Saying this — her maids having returned, reassured by her
intrepidity — she proceeded, with steady step, towards the
suspected closet, seized the door by the handle, flung it
boldly open, and discovered, to the astonished eyes of her
attendants and to her own inexpressible amazement, the
poet, Chatelard, armed with sword and dagger. For some
seconds, the Queen uttered not a syllable ; but a flush of
indignation and of insulted pride suffused her exquisitely
lovely countenance.

" Chatelard," she at length said, in a tone of calm severity,
and with a dignity of manner becoming her high state and
lineage, " come forth and answer for this daring and
atrocious conduct, this unheard of insolence and presump-
tion." Chatelard obeyed, and was about to throw himself
at her feet, when she sternly forbade him.

" I want no apologies, presumptuous man," she said — " no
craving of forgiveness. I want explanation of this infamous
proceeding, and that I demand of you in the presence of
my attendants here. Know ye not, sir," she went on,
" that your head is forfeited by this offence, and that I have
but to give the word and the forfeit will be exacted ?"

" I know it, I know it," exclaimed Chatelard, persisting
in throwing himself on his knees ; "but the threat has no
terrors for me. It is your displeasure alone — fairest, brightest
of God's creatures — that I fear. It is"'

" Peace, Chatelard/' interrupted Mary, peremptorily.

" What mean ye by this language, sir ? Would ye cut your-
self off from all hope of pardon, by adding offence upon
offence ? Rise, sir, and leave this apartment instantly, I
command you ; I will now hear neither explanation noi
apology."

« Then, will you forgive me ?" said Chatelard ; " will you

forgive a presumption of which"

f " I will hear no more, sir," again interrupted the Queen,
indignantly. " Begone, sir ! Remain another instant, and I
give the alarm. Your life depends on your obedience."
And Mary placed her hand on a small silver bell, from which,
had she drawn the slightest sound, the poet's doom was
sealed, and she would have rung his funeral knell.

Chatelard _now slowly rose from his knees, folded his
arms across his breast, and, with downcast look, but without
uttering another word, strode out of the apartment. Wheu
he had gone, the Queen, no longer supported by the excite-
ment occasioned by the presence of the intruder, flung
herself into a chair, greatly agitated and deadly pale,
Here she sat in silence for several minutes, evidently
employed in endeavouring to obtain a view of the late sin-
gular occurrence in all its bearings, and in determining on
the course which she herself ought to pursue regarding it.

Having seemingly satisfied herself on these points —
" Ladies," she, at length, said — these ladies were two of her
Maries, Mary Livingstone, and Mary Fleeming — " this is a
most extraordinary circumstance. Rash, thoughtless, pre-
sumptuous man, how could he have been so utterly lost to
every sense of propriety and of his own peril, as to think
of an act of such daring insolence ?"

" Poor man, I pity him," here simply, but naturally
enough, perhaps, interrupted Mary Fleeming. " Doubtless,
madam, you will report the matter instantly to the Earl."

" Nay, Mary, I know not if I will, after all," replied the
Queen. " I, perhaps, ought to do so; but methinks it would
be hardly creditable to me, as a woman, to bring this poor
thoughtless young man to the scaffold, whither, you know,
my stern brother would have him instantly dragged, if he
knew of his offence; and besides, ladies," went on the Queen,
in whose gentle bosom the kindly feelings of her nature
had now completely triumphed over those of insulted dignity
and pride, " I know not how far I am myself to blame in this
matter. I fear me, I ought to have been more guarded in
my conduct towards this infatuated young man. I should
have kept him at a greater distance, and been more cautious
of admitting him to familiar converse, since he has evidently
misconstrued our affability and condescension. There may
have been error there, you see, ladies."

" Yet," said Mary Livingstone, " methinks the daring
insolence of the man ought not to go altogether unpunished,
madam. If he has cho°en to misconstrue, it can be no
fault of.yours."

" Perhaps not," replied Mary. 'As a Queen, I certainly
ought to give him up to the laws ; but, as a woman, I cannot.
Yet shall he not go unpunished. He shall be forthwith
banished from our court and kingdom. To-morrow I shall
cause it to be intimated to him, that he leave our court
instantly, and Scotland within four-and-twenty hours there-
after, on pain of our highest displeasure, and peril of dis-
closure of his crime."

Having thus spoken, and having obtained a promise of
secrecy regarding Chatelard's offence, from her two attend-
ants, Mary retired for the night, not, however, quite assured
that she was pursuing the right course for her own repu-
tation, in thus screening the guilt of the poet ; but, never-
theless, determined, at all risks, to save him, in this instance
at least, from the consequences of his indiscretion. On the
following morning, the Queen dispatched a note to Chate-
lard, to the purpose which we have represented her as ex-
pressing on the preceding night ; and, in obedience to the
command it contained, he instantly left the palace, but m

22

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

a state of indescribable mental agitation and distraction ;
for, in the determination expressed by the Queen, he saw at
once an end to all his wild hopes, and, more unendurable
still, an assurance that he had wholly mistaken the feelings
with which Mary regarded him. We have said that
Chatelard obeyed one of the injunctions of the Queen —
that was, to leave the palace instantly. He did so ; but
whether he conformed to the other, the sequel will
shew.

Two days after the occurrences just related, Mary set out
for St Andrew's ; taking the route of the Queensferry, and
sleeping the first night at Dunfermline, and the second at
Bunitisland. On the evening of her arrival at the latter
place, the Queen, fatigued by her journey, which had been
prolonged by hunting and hawking, retired early to her
apartment. Here she had not been many minutes, when
the door was suddenly thrown open, and Chatelard
entered.

" What ! again, Chatelard !" exclaimed Mary, with the
utmost indignation and astonishment. " What means this,
sir ? How have you dared to intrude yourself again into
my apartment ?"

Without making any reply to this salutation, Chatelard
threw himself on his knees before the Queen, and, seizing
the skirt of her robe, implored her pardon for his presump-
tion; adding, that he had been impelled to this second
intrusion solely by a desire to explain to her the motives
of his former conduct, which, he said, had been wrongly
interpreted, and to bid her farewell, before he went into the
banishment to which she had doomed him.

" Rise, sir, rise," said Mary : " I will listen to no explan-
at ons forced on me in this extraordinary manner. I desire
that you instantly quit this apartment. This repetition of
your offence, sir, I will neither bear with nor overlook. Rise,
I command you, and begone."

Instead of obeying, the infatuated poet iiot only persisted
in remaining in the position he was in, but, still keeping
hold of the Queen's robe, began to speak the language of
passion and love. The Queen endeavoured to release her-
self from his hold, and Avas in the act of attempting to do
so, when the door of the apartment, which Chatelard had
closed behind him, was violently thrown open, and the Earl
of Murray entered. Having advanced two or three steps,
he stood still, and, folding his arms across his breast, looked
sternly, but in silence, first at the Queen, and then at Chate-
lard ; keeping, at the same time, sufficiently near the door
to prevent the escape of the latter, in case he should make
such an attempt. Having gazed on them for some time
without opening his lips, but with an ominous expression
of countenance —

'• Well, Sir Poet," he, at length, said, addressing Chate-
lard, with cold deliberation, " pray do me the favour to
enlighten me as to the meaning of your having thus intruded
yourself into the Queen's apartment. Why do I find
you here, sir, and wherefore have I found you in the
position from which you have just 30V risen. Pray, sir,
explain."

" I came here, my Lord," replied Chatelard, with firmness
and dignity, " to take leave of her Majesty before returning
to France, for which I set out to-morrow."

An ironical and incredulous smile played on the stern
countenance of Murray. " A strange place this, methinks,
lind a strange season for leave-taking; and yet stranger
than all, the language in which I just now heard you
speak. You are aware, I presume, sir," he added, " that
you are just now in the Queen's sleeping apartment, where
none dare intrude but on peril of their lives. But pro-
bably, madam," he said, now turning to the Queen, with-
out waiting any reply to his last remark, " you can explain
the meaning of this extraordinary scene."

" You had better, my Lord/' replied Maiy, evasively — for

she was still reluctant to commit the unfortunate poet —
" obtain what explanations you desire from Chatelard him-
self. He, surely, is the fittest person to explain his own
conduct."

" True, madam," said Murray, sneeringly, " but I thought
it not by any means improbable that you might be as well
informed on the point in question as the gentleman him-
self."

" Your insinuation is rude, my Lord," replied the Queen,
haughtily ; and, without vouchsafing any other remark,
walked away to the further end of the apartment, leaving
the Earl and Chatelard together.

Murray now saw, from the perfectly composed and inde-
pendent manner of the Queen, that he could make out
nothing to her prejudice from the case before him, nor elicit
the slightest evidence of anything like connivance, on the
part of Mary, at Chatelard's intrusion. Seeing this, he
determined on proceeding against the unfortunate poet
with the utmost rigour to which his imprudence had exposed
him, in the hope that severity might wring from him such
confessions as would implicate the Queen.

Having come to this resolution — " Sir," he said, address-
ing Chatelard, "prepare to abide the consequences of your
presumption." And he proceeded to the door, called an
attendant, and desired him to send the captain of the guard
and a party to him instantly.

In a few minutes, they appeared, when the Earl, address-
ing the officer just named, and pointing to Chatelard, desired
him to put that gentleman in ward ; and the latter was
immediately hurried out of the apartment. When, the
guard, with their prisoner, had left the Queen's chamber,
the Earl walked up to Mary, who, with her head lean-
ing pensively on her hand, had been silently contem-
plating the proceedings that were going forward in hei
apartment.

" Madam," said Murray, on approaching her, " I think
you may consider yourself in safety for this night, at any
rate, from any further intrusion from this itinerant versifier;
and it shall be my fault if he ever again annoys you or any
one else."

" What, brother !" exclaimed Mary, in evident alarm at
this ambiguous, but ominous hint — " you will not surely
proceed to extremities against the unfortunate young man ?'

"By St Bride, but I will though," replied Murray, angrily.
"Why, madam, has not your reputation as a woman, and
your dignity as a Queen, both been assailed by this inso-
lent foreigner, in the daring act he has done ?"

"Nay, my Lord," replied the Queen, haughtily, "mcthinks
it will take much more than this to affect my reputation.
I, indeed, marvel much to hear you speak thus, my Lord.
My dignity, again, can be debased only by mine own acts,
and cannot be affected by the act of another."

" Nevertheless, madam," rejoined her brother, " ye cannot
stop slanderous tongues ; and I know not how the world
may construe this circumstance. Both your honour and
station require that this presumptuous knave suffer the
penalty of his crime in its utmost rigour. What would the
world say else ? Why, it would have suspicions that ought
not for an instant to be associated with the name of Mary
Stuart."

" But you will not have his life taken, brother ?" said
Mary, in a gentle tone — subdued by the thoughts of the
severe doom that threatened the unfortunate gentleman,
and placing her hand affectionately on the Earl's arm as she
spoke. "• Can ye not banish him forth of the realm, or
imprison him ? — anything short of death, which, methinks,
would be, after all, hard measure for the ofience." -

" You have reasons, doubtless, madam," said the Earl,
coldly and bluntly, " for this tenderness."

" I have," said Mary, indignantly ; " but riot, my Lord,
such as you would seem to insinuate. My reasons are

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

23

humanity, and a feeling of compassion for the misguided
>nd unhappy youth."

"Chatelard shall have such mercy, madam, as your
Majesty's privy council may deem him deserving of," replied
the Earl, turning round on his heel, and quitting the apart-
ment.

On leaving the presence of the Queen, the Earl of Murray
retired to his own chamber, where he was, shortly after,
waited upon by Choisseul, who had been for some time
watching his return.

" Ha, Choisseul ! art there ?" said the Earl, with an
unusual expression of satisfaction on his countenance, on
the former's entrance. " Thou hast done well, friend ; I
found matters exactly as you stated, and am obliged by the
promptness and accuracy of your information."

" Vere happy, my Lor', I am serve to your satisfaction,"
replied Choisseul, bowing low. " I vas vatch Monsieur
Chatelard as vone cat shall vatch vone leetle mice, and did
caught him at las."

" You did well, Choisseul, and shall be suitably recom-
pensed. Dost know how the fellow came here and when ?"

" He did come in vone leetle barque, my Lor', from over
de riviere, on de todder side opposite."

" Ah, so !" said the Earl. " Well, you may now retire,
Choisseul. To-morrow I shall see to your reward."

Choisseul bowed and withdrew.

When he had retired, the Earl sat down to a small
writing table, and, late as the hour was, began writing with
great assiduity — an employment at which he continued until
he had written eight or ten different letters, each of con-
siderable length. These were addressed to various members
of the Queen's Privy Council in Edinburgh, and to some
of the law officers of the crown. They were all nearly
copies of each other, and contained an account of Chate-
lard's conduct, with a charge to the several parties ad-
dressed to repair to St Andrew's on the second day following,
for the purpose of holding a court on the offender, and
awarding him such punishment as the case might seem to
demand.

On the day succeeding that on which the occurrence
just related took place, the Queen and her retinue pro-
ceeded to St Andrew's, whither the prisoner, Chatelard,
was also earned ; and, on the next again, the unfortunate
gentleman was brought to trial, the scene of which was
an apartment in the Castle of St Andrew's, which had been
hastily prepared for the occasion. In tlie centre of this
apartment was placed a large oblong oaken table, covered
with crimson velvet, and surrounded by a circle of high-
backed chairs, with cushions covered by the same material.
These were subsequently occupied by eight or ten persons
of the Privy Council ; including Mary's Secretary of State,
Maitland of Lethington, who sat at one end of the table.
At the opposite end, sat the Earl of Murray ; the prisoner
occupying a place in the centre at one of the sides. During
the investigation which followed into the offence of Chate-
lard, the Earl of Murray made repeated indirect attempts
to lead him to make statements prejudicial to the Queen ;
urging him, with a show of candour and pretended
regard for justice, to inform the court of anything and
everything which he thought might be available in his
defence, without regard to the rank or condition of those
whom such statements might implicate. This language
was too plain to be misunderstood. Every one present
perceived that it conveyed a pointed allusion to the Queen.
Chatelard, amongst the rest, felt that it did so, and indig-
nantly repelled the insinuation,

" I have none," he said, "to accuSD but myself; nothing
to blame but my own folly. Folly, did I say !" went on
the fearless enthusiast ; " it was no folly — it was love, love,
love — all-powerful love — love for her, the noblest, the
loveliest of created beings, for whom I could die ten

thousand deaths. It was love for her who has been to me
the breath of life, the light of mine eyes, the idol of my
heart ; around which were entwined all the feelings and
susceptibilities of my nature, even as the ivy entwines the
tree. The constant theme of my dreams by night ; the
sole subject of my thoughts by day. It has been hinted to
me that I may blame freely where to blame may serve me.
But Avhom shall I blame ? Not her, surely, who is the
object of my idolatry — my sun, moon, and stars — my heaven,
my soul, my existence. Not her, surely ; for she is fault-
less as the unborn babe, pure and spotless as the snow
wreath in the hollow of the mountain. Who shall main-
tain the contrary lies in his throat, and is a foul-mouthed
villanous slanderer."

Here the enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent speaker,
was abruptly interrupted by Maitland of Lethington, who,
rising to his feet, and resting his hands on the low table
around which Chatelard's judges were seated, said, looking
at the prisoner —

"Friend, ye must speak to your defence, if ye would
speak at all. This that ye have said is nothing to the
purpose, and ye cannot be permitted to take up the time of
this court with such rhapsodies as these, that make not for
any point of your accusation. — Think ye not so, my
Lords ?" he added, glancing around the table. Several
nods of assent spoke acquiescence. When Maitland had
concluded —

" I have done, then, my Lords," said Chatelard, bowing
and seating himself. " I have no more to say."

A short conversation now took place amongst the
prisoner's judges, when sentence of death was unanimously
agreed to, and he was ordered to be beheaded on the follow-
ing day, the 22d of February 1503.

On the rising of the court, the Earl of Murray repaired
to the Queen, and informed her of the doom awarded
against Chatelard. Mary was greatly affected by the in-
telligence. She burst into tears, exclaiming —

" 0 unhappy, thrice unhappy countenance ! — thou hast
been given me for a curse instead of a blessing — the ruin
of those who love me best — that, by inspiring a silly
passion, at once dangerous and worthless, will not permit
one to remain near me in the character of friend ! My Lord,
my Lord," she continued, in great agitation ; " can you not,
will you not save the unhappy young man ? I beseech
thee, I implore thee, by the ties of consanguinity that con-
nect us, by the duty ye owe to me as thy sovereign, to
spare his life."

" Ye know not what ye ask, madam," replied Murray,
stalking up and down the apartment. " How can his life
be spared consistently with your honour ? Save him and
you will set a thousand slanderous tongues a-wagging. It
may not — must not be."

Mary herself could not deny the force of this remark,
and, finding she had nothing to oppose to it, she flung her-
self into a chair and again burst into tears. In this con-
dition the Earl left her to give orders respecting the exe-
cution of Chatelard on the following day, and to put another
proceeding in train for obtaining that result which he had
aimed at on the trial of the unfortunate young man.
Sending again for Choisseul —

" Friend," he said, on that person's entering the apart-
ment, " I wish another small piece of service at your hands."

Choisseul bowed, and expressed his readiness to do any-
thing he might be required to do.

" I vas proud to discharge all de drops of my blood in your
service, my Lor'," said the knave, with a profound obeisance.

The Earl carelessly nodded approbation.

To-night, then, Choisseul," he went on, " you will repair
to the dungeon in which Chatelard is confined. You will
see him as a friend. You understand me ?"

el Ah ! well, my Lor' — vere well."

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" Just so ; \vell, then, you will hint to him that you have
reason to believe he might yet save his life by confessing
a participation in his guilt on the part of the Queen. You
may add, though not as from me, of course, that I have no
doubt of his having been encouraged to those liberties for
•which bis life is forfeited; and you may say that you
know I feel for him, and would readily procure his pardon
if he would only give me a reasonable ground or pretext
for doing so, by shewing that there were others equally
in fault with him. Do you entirely understand me,
Choisseul ?"

" Entirely, my Lor'," replied the latter ; " bright, clear,
as noonday at the sun."

" So, then, return to mo when you have seen Chatelard,
and let me know the result," said the Earl.

Choisseul once more withdrew, to perform the treacherous
and knavish part assigned him. About midnight he sought
the dungeon of the unhappy gentleman, and, having been
admitted by the guards, found him busily employed in
writing; the indulgence of a lamp, with pen, ink, and
paper, having, at his most earnest request, been afforded
him. Indeed, these were more readily and willingly
given than he was aware of. They were given in the
hope that he would commit something to writing which,
without his intending it, might compromise the character
of the Queen. But in this her enemies were disappointed.

On Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter,
as we have already said, was busily engaged in writing.
He was inditing a last farewell to the Queen in verse. On
this employment he was so intent that he did not ob-
serve, or, at least, pay any attention to the entrance of
Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed
his task, which now, however, occupied only a very few
minutes. On finishing —

"Tis done," he said, and threw down his pen with violence
on the table. "These are the last notes of the harp of Chate-
lard. Ha! Choisseul !" he immediately added, and only now
for the first time seeming conscious of that person's presence.
" I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is kind. I
thought there were none in this strange land to care for me.
But they shall see, Choisseul," he added, proudly, " how a
Frenchman and a poet can die. That is boldly and
bravely. He were no true poet whose soul was not elevated
above the fear of death. I said, my friend," he went on,
after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke,
" that I thought there were none in this land to care for
me, or to sorrow for me — and perhaps it is so ; but there is
one, Choisseul, whom I would not willingly believe indiffer-
ent to my fate. She, surely, much as I have offended her,
will say ' Poor Chatelard !' Nay, methinks I see a tear
standing in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory
of her departed poet. That, that, Choisseul," said the
unhappy captive, with an enthusiasm which even the near
approach of death had not been able to abate — " that would
be something worth dying for !"

Choisseul smiled. " You hold your life lightly, indeed,
Chatelard," he said, speaking in his native language, " if
you think its loss compensated by a woman's tear."

" Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman !" exclaimed Chate-
lard.

" Well, well," replied the former, again smiling; f(but you
can have no doubt that she, at least, will regret your death.
She loved you too well not to deplore your fate."

" Did she ?" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such
a look of inquiry and doubt as greatly disappointed the
assertor. " You know who I mean, then ; but how know
ye that which you have just row said ? Assure me that
ye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy."

" Ah ! bah ! you know it yourself, my friend, better than
I," replied the latter. " No use in concealing it now," he
added, with arx intelligent look.

" Concealing what, sir ?" said Chatelard, in a tone of
mingled surprise and displeasure.

" Why, the affection the Queen entertained for you,"
replied Choisseul. " We all know, my friend, you would
not have done what you did, had she not encouraged your
addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard," he went on —
" I have reason to believe that your life would be yet spared,
if you would only shew that this was so."

" Ah, I understand you/' said Chatelard, with suppressed
passion. " If I will accuse the Queen — if I will put her
in the power of her enemies — her enemies will be obliged to
me. In other words, I may save my life by sacrificing her
reputation ; and it would be little matter whether what I
said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul ?" Then,
without waiting for an answer — " Villain, devil that thou
art," he exclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the
passion that had been raised within him, " how hast thou
dared to come to me with such an infamous proposal as
this ? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my soul was
as mean as thine own ? Begone, begone, ruffian ! Thy
presence, thy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the
fetid damps that exhale from its walls — more than the
noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor. Begone ! begone,
I say !" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the
throat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with
a violence that instantly brought in the guards who were
staioned on the outside. These, seeing how matters stood,
hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon, and again secured
the door on its unfortunate inmate.

On leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of
Murray, but with infinitely less confidence in his looks and
manner than on the former occasion when his villany had
been successful. To the Earl he detailed the particulars of
his interview with Chatelard ; not forgetting to mention
the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated
poet.

"Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?" said Murray,
when the former had done speaking.

" Not anyting at all, my Lor'. Dere is no hope ; for he
make no more of dying than I do of taking vone leetle
pinch of snuff."

"Obstinate fool!" exclaimed the Earl, evidently chagrined
and disappointed. " Let him die, then ! You may retire,
Choisseul," he abruptly added.

Choisseul obeyed.

" His execution, at any rate, shall be public," said the
Earl to himself, when the latter had left him. " Perhaps
he may make some confession on the scaffold, and it will be
well to have it amply testified."

On the following day, Chatelard was led out to exe-
cution, when his gentlemanlike appearance and noble
bearing excited the utmost sympathy of the crowd. On
ascending the scaffold, he pulled a small volume from his
pocket, opened it, and read aloud, with great dignity. and
composure, Ronsard's Hymn on Death. When he had
done, he turned towards that part of the Castle of St
Andrew's where he supposed the Queen to be, and, kissing
his hand, waved a graceful adieu, exclaiming — " Farewell,
loveliest and most cruel Princess whom the world con-
tains !"

Having uttered these words, he laid his head, with the
utmost composure, on the block. The axe of the exe-
cutioner fell, and the high-souled, accomplished, but en-
thusiastic Chatelard was no more.

WILSON'S

'cal, arram'ttonavg, anH

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE.

" Lay her i' the earth ;
And, from her pure and unpolluted flesh,
May violets spring !"

Hamlet.

IT is a lovely spot, Grassyvale — " beautiful exceedingly."
But its beauty is of a quiet, unimposing description ; the
characteristic feature of the landscape which would strike
the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from the highest
neighbouring eminence, is simply — repose. There are no
mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many
miles — none of those natural pyramids which, in various
parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle
and of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of ada-
mant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are situ-
ated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and
might readily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like
stillness, and the everlasting monotony of their outline. No
waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frown-
ing, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to the thunder of
iheir fall since the birth of time. There is no far-spreading
rorest — no yawning ravine, with " ebon shades and low-
browed rocks" — no beetling cliff or precipice, " shagged" with
brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand,
the sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent — there is only
quiet; or, if the terms do not sound dissonant to "ears polite,"
modest, unassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it per-
petually present in the zenith, might form a characteristic
and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not here wrought
her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is
so 'attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are
not sure but we may be as much stultified with this ques-
tion, as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem,
" We are seven," (which the reader may turn up at leisure,
when the propriety of the comparison will be seen,) and may
be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves
for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same
dogmatic obstinacy — it is beautiful. But the length of our
story compels us to exclude a description of the landscape,
we had prepared.

The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the mar-
gin of a small stream, consists of about one hundred scattered
cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most of them adorned
in front with some flowering shrub — wild brier, honeysuckle,
or the like — whilst a " kail-yard" in the rear constitutes no
inappropriate appendage. There is one of those dwellings
conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them,
and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it
wears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmo-
sphere. It is literally covered with a net-work of ivy, honey-
suckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose unvarnished
leaf renders more conspicuous " the bright profusion of its
scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a
multitude of roses, which seem clustering and crowding
together to gain an entrance, and scatter their " perfumed
sweets" around the apartment. Near the cottage, there is
also a holly planted — that evergreen tree which seems pro-
Tidentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of
108. VOL. III.

winter, and, when all is withered and desolate around, to
remain a perpetual promise of spring. But we have more
to do with this beautiful little dwelling than merely to
describe its exterior.

Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulat-
ing into elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which
stands the parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat — faith's
triumph, and mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks
scattered around indicate the cemetery where " the rude
forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Amongst those memorials
which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue
for a few generations — and which, with their appropriate
emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart,
and realize to the letter Shakspeare's memorable words,
" sermons in stones" — there is one which always attracts
attention. It is not a " storied urn, an animated bust" — one
of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which
worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnifi-
cence, over departed pride. No ; it is only a small, un-
adorned slab, of rather dingy-coloured freestone ; and the
inscription is simply — " To the memory of May Darling,
who was removed from this world to a better, at the early
age of nineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving
sister, and a sincere Christian.

" Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er ;

She is not lost, but only gone before."

Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who
would pass that humble grave without heaving a sigh or
shedding a tear for her who sleeps beneath — her who was
so beloved, so admired by every one, as well as being the
idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and
untimely fate (cut off " i' the morn and liquid dew of
youth") was the village talk for many a day.

John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no
great phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a
sober, industrious, honest man. In early life, he espoused
the daughter of an opulent farmer, whose marriage portion
enabled him to commence life under very favourable aus
pices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the
mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, how-
ever wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and how-
ever assiduously and judiciously they may be pursued.
Untoward circumstances, which it would unnecessarily
protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the
period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field
labourer. Death had, likewise, been busy singling out vic-
tims from amongst those who surrounded his humble, but
cheerful fireside; and, of a large family, there only remained
three, and he was a widower besides. May was the oldest
and, accordingly, the superintendence of the household
devolved upon her. The deceased parent was of a some-
what haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the recollection
of former affluence never forsook her ; and this circumstance
kept her much aloof from the less polished and sophisticated
matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict family
disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely
upon the affairs of her own household ; and her childre
were accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and
brought up with more scrupulous care than was usual wit
those around her. It was her pride, and « let it be her

26

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

praise," to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than
those worn by their associates ; and, to accomplish this dar-
ling object, what serious transmutation did her finery of
former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended
from child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and
otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove ! The
dress of May, in particular — her first-born bud of bliss, the
doted on of her bosom — was always attended to with spe-
cial care ; nor was the cultivation of her mind in any way
overlooked. She very early inspired her with a love of
reading, which increased with the developement of her facul-
ties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had
been awakened.

In person, May was slender ; but her light, airy, sylph-
like form, was eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of
intense depth of black contrasted admirably witk a counte-
nance which may be designated as transparent — it was
nearly colourless ; and only on occasions of unusual bodily
exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the cheek
with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate
oyer her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, how-
ever— it had nothing about it of that death-in-life hue
which indicates the presence of disease.

« Oh, call it fair, not pale I"

The expression was at once amiable and intellectual —
mellowed or blended, however, with a pensiveness which is
usually, but most erroneously called melancholy. Melancholy
had nothing to do with a " mind at peace with all below —
a heart, whose love was innocent." The countenance, in
general, affords an index of the mental character — it takes
its " form and pressure," as it were, from the predominant
workings of that inward principle which is the source of
thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling,
those subtle essences, are made visible to the eye — it is
there that mind may be seen. The most casual observer
could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke elo-
quently in the eye, " and sweetly lightened o'er the face" of
May Darling, was a worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of
virtue ; for they are often combined — they have a natural
relation to one another; and, when they exist simultaneously
in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for
enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is
susceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and san-
guine in a very high degree ; and books of a romantic or
dramatic character were mines of " untold wealth" to her.
" Many are poets who have never penned
Their inspirations."

And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble
village-maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of
fame, she enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In
short, both in her mental character, and in the style of her
personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of
the village. Need it be told that often, of a fine evening,
she would steal away from her gay, romping, laughing
associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and
wrapt in a vision of " tn-eet coming fancies," follow the
course of the stream which intersected her native vale, flow-
ing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own
existence ?

The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her
leisure hours, was a beautiful dell, distant about half a mile
from the village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, so
undisturbed, that there— (but then all these fine old rural
deities, those idols shrinedfor ages in Nature's own hallowed
pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by
science — why should this be?) — there, if anywhere, the
genius of solitude might be supposed to have fixed his abode.
It was a broken piece of ground, intersected by several
irregular banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur,
(not on an Alpine scale, however,) and there, clothed with
tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. The

earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf;
and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were
numerous wild flowers — the arum, Avith its speckled leaves
and lilac blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enameled blue
looks so charmingly in the light of the setting sun ; and
oxlips, cowslips, and the like — throwing up their variegated
tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle
creature, like May Darling, to gather up and lay upon her
bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated
with the perfume which they breathed out — the everlasting
incense of the flowers rising from the altars of Nature to her
God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned from
books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion
with her own ; and well was it adapted for nursing a
romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender
feeling.

The personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature
increased with her years, and she became the reigning belle
of Grassyvale and all the country round. It followed, as
a matter of course, that her admirers outnumbered her
years ; and that the possession of her affections was, with
many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled the little
kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At
every village fete — a wedding, a harvest home, or other
rural festival — hers was the step most buoyant in the dance,
hers the hand most frequently solicited, hers the form and
face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled the heart of the
ardent admirer " too much adoring." Amongst the other
accomplishments of our heroine, skill in music was not the
least prominent. Not that she excelled in those intricate
graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to con-
ceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expres-
sion ; but her " wood-note wild" was eminently character-
ised by the latter qualities of singing ; and the effect which
she produced, was, accordingly, calculated to be lasting.

It must not be supposed, however, that the flattering
unction of adulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara,
"but half-concealed/' had any pernicious influence over
her mind. She was neither puffed up with vain conceit,
nor display of haughty reserve and distance towards those
who numbered fewer worshippers than herself; still humi-
lity of heart, which was " native there and to the manner
born," characterised her deportment — nor was there any
relaxation in the discharge of the household duties which
devolved upon her ; and the comfort of her father, and the
proper care and culture of the younger branches of the
family, were as faithfully attended to as if her deformity,
instead of her beauty, had been proverbial. She folded the
little flutterers under her wing, like a mother bird ; and, if
there was one thing more than another that she took delight
in, it was the training of their young minds to the love and
practice of virtue and religion, the only fountains whence
happiness, pure and uncomtaminated, can be drawn in this
life.

" So passed their life — a clear united stream,

By care unruflled ; till, in evil hour"——

But we anticipate.

It was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of
her little sisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the
county town. Such an event naturally excites considerable
interest over all the country round ; and old and young,
blind and cripple, male and female, pour along the public
ways — not in " weary," but in light-hearted " droves" — full
of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the pool of
Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual
descent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters ; for there
there is to be found variety of amusement for every
mind — from the Katerfelto wonderer, " wondering for his
bread," down to the more humble establishment of the half-
penny showman, with his " glorious victory of Waterloo,"
his "golden beetle," or "ashes from the burning moun-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

tains." But, on the occasion to which we refer, there
was an exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which
presented extraordinary attractions for May Darling ; and,
accordingly, after deliberately balancing the gratification
which she anticipated, with the expense which it would
cost, (her exchequer was, of course, not very rich,) she at
length found herself comfortably seated near the front of
the stage. The tragedy of " George Barnwell" was going
off with prodigious eclat ; and the performers had arrived
at that scene where the hero is about to assassinate his uncle,
when the insecure props that supported the gallery began
to indicate a disposition to disencumber themselves of their
burden, and, at last, finally gave way. The confusion
which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and other
vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to describe
— these have nothing to do with our tale. Barnwell, instead
of imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even " in jest,"
became the most active agent in rescuing his hapless
audience from their perilous situation. He was a tall,
handsome young man, of a very prepossessing exterior, and
appeared to great advantage in his showy stage habiliments.
The general rush was towards the door, the most likely
avenue of escape which presented itself to the astonished
rustics ; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, _with
more collected judgment and presence of mind, found a
place of security on the stage. May was slightly bruised
in her endeavours to shelter her young charge ; and,
although not much injured, her forlorn yet interesting
appearance drew the attention of the histrionic Samaritan,
and he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of
the theatre. The affair was not of such a serious nature as
might have been anticipated. A few dilapidated seats, and
a score or two of trifling contusions, made up the sum total
of the damage. A hat or two might have changed owners
in the confusion ; but these are things beneath the dignity
of a tragedian to look after ; and, as soon as matters were
adjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he returned
to the object of his first solicitude. She was seated on a
stool, in what was dignified with the sounding appellation
of a green-room — looking paler, and lovelier, and more love-
able than ever. He quieted her apprehensions with respect
to the catastrophe ; for he was an adept in the art of imita-
tion, and politely requested the honour of conducting her
to her place of residence. It is not difficult to conceive
what was the first impression which the request made upon
the mind of May Darling ; but the scruples of modest,
virgin innocence, yielded at last to the importunities of the
actor, and they left the scene of mirth and confusion together.
On their journey homewards, the conversation naturally
turned upon the drama ; and many a fine passage, which
May admired, was recited to her with all the eloquence and
stage artifice which the actor was master of. And he
would speak feelingly of <c the gentle lady married to the
Moor;" her love — the love of Desdemona — pure, exalted, all-
enduring — such as death alone could quench ; her wo and
her fate, so replete with all that can agonize the human
soul, and awaken its profouridest sympathies ; — of Ophe-
lia— " the fair Ophelia," the young, the beautiful, and the
gentle — her devoted, child-like affection, her mournful
distraction, and her untimely doom ; — of Miranda, the
island bride — the being of enchantment — half earthly, half
heavenly — around whom the spirits of the air hovered, and
ministered unto as vassals ; — of Imogen, the fair and faith-
ful— the patient, long-suffering, and finally fortunate
Imogen ; — of Cordelia — she of the seraph-spirit, pure and
peaceful — whose love for a father surpassed that of the
Roman daughter ; — of Perdita — " the prettiest low-born lass
that ever ran on the greensward" — the shepherdess and the
princess ; — of Juliet — the martyr of passion — she who drew
poison from earth's sweetestflower — love — and died thereby;
by love's own flame, " kindled she was and blasted." These,

and many other creations of fancy, which omnipotent genius
has rendered almost real historical personages— not shadow
but substance — were the topics of discourse which were
handled by our hero of the buskin, until the cottage of John
Darling was reached. From the description which has been
given of May's character, it need be no matter of surprise
that the impression made upon her gentle bosom was pro-
found ; and, on taking leave of her, a request, on the part
of Mr Henry Wilkinson, (such was the tragedian's name,)
to be permitted to visit her on some future occasion, made
under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of hei
health, was acceded to. Again and again Mr "Wilkinson
visited the cottage, and poured into the ear of the humble,
unsuspecting, and happy inmate, many a story of love, and
hope, and joy — such as his knowledge of the drama, which
was great, supplied him with.

" These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline ;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear,
Devour up his discourse."

Substitute the name of May Darling for that of Desde-
mona, and the description becomes perfect of our heroine's
situation, whilst the result was similar : in a short time, the
happiness of our village maiden was entirely at the disposal
of Mr Wilkinson. Hitherto her heart had slept, like some
untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven, and nature grand
and beautiful around; but now its waters were darkened
and disturbed by one single image — and that was her lover's.
Her ears were no longer open to the murmurs of her native
stream, or the gush of song from the fairy- winged and fairy-
plumaged birds, whom she almost knew one from another :
she only heard the music of her lover's voice. Her secluded
dell was no longer visited alone ; her walks were no longer
solitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet him whom her
heart loved, and to see if his speed " kept pace with her
expectancy." Everything was beheld through one all-
hallowing atmosphere — and that was love. It lay upon her
soul like the shadow on the sundial, and time was measured
by it. How, it will be asked, was all this looked upon by
her father ? With no favourable eye — nay, with many sus-
picious forebodings and prophetic fears.

It was about three months after the catastrophe which
took place in the provincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson
made proposals of a union to May, which, being accepted,
the consent of her parent was next applied for. The
advances of the actor were for a time checked by an un-
compromising refusal ; but May's father gradually became
less peremptory, until there remained only one objection,
but that was insurmountable — namely, the profession of Mr
Wilkinson— one, in general, very obnoxious to a Scottish
peasant. It was, however, finally obviated, by the actor's
promising to abandon it, and become a teacher of elocution

in the town of H . The father's consent was obtained at

last, though with reluctance, and the day of their nuptials
was fixed.

It was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day
when May Darling was to give her hand to the man for
whom her heart cherished a love as deep, intense, and con-
centrated, as ever was awakened and nursed in woman's
gentle bosom. The sun — just sinking through those vast
masses of clouds which usually attend his exit, and assume,
as he descends, various wild and fantastical shapes, and catch
every hue, from the intense purple to the scarcely percept-
ible yellow — showered on the face of nature a stream of
rich but mellowed radiance, which softened without oblit-
erating, the outlines of objects, and produced that " clear
obscure, so softly dark, so darkly pure," which is so favour-
able to indulgence in tender emotions.

«« Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart !'V-

sweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling mosf

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

profound — when the mind, abroad all day, busied with the
concerns of this work-a-day world, comes home to itself,
and broods, and sleeps, and dreams golden dreams — sunny
hope-illumined dreams ! — sweet hour, when the ties of socia'
being which the day had severed are reunited, and around
the household hearth, the "old familiar faces" are assembled .
— sweet hour, when the shades of evening, gradually deepen-
ing, are sufficient to conceal the blush which might mantle
beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly pressed, as, in a voice
half sighs, half whispers,, she confesses the secret of her
love ; and when, in the arms which gently enfold her yield-
ing form, she seems, in the fine language of Rogers, to
become less and less earthly,

" And fades at last into a spirit from heaven !"

'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his
betrothed set out on one of those charming walks during
which they had so often exchanged vows of mutual and
eternal love. The road which they at first took, was suffi-
ciently retired to admit of their conversing aloud with
unreserved confidence; but, continuing their journey, uncon-
scious where they were going, they found themselves at
last in the vicinity of the high road which leads to the town

of H . Turning to strike down a narrow hedge-row path,

a moving spectacle presented itself to their observation.
Upon a grassy knoll lay a female fast asleep, with a child
at her breast, vainly attempting to force its little fingers
within the folds of the handkerchief which concealed the
bosom of its mother. May uttered a faint exclamation,
somewhat between pity and fear ; for she was taken by
surprise. But her lover's astonishment was still greater
than hers ; for, after he had contemplated the care-worn
features of the wayfarer, he started, and, had not the increas-
ing gloom of evening prevented any change of counte-
nance from being perceptible, May might have seen his face
turn ashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly
locked, to tremble distinctly.

" This touches your feelings, Henry," said May ; " but can
we not, love, do something to alleviate the sufferings of this,
no doubt, unfortunate female ? Had I not better awake
her, and conduct her to my father's, where refreshment and
rest can be procured ?"

" Nay, dearest love," said Wilkinson — te sleep is to the
•wretched the greatest boon that can be bestowed : let us
leave her alone, nor deprive her of the only comfort which,
possibly, she is capable of enjoying."

So saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat
reluctantly, homewards; for her sympathy was much excited,
and she would fain have carried her generous purpose into
effect ; but gave way to the entreaties of her lover, who had
some miles to walk ere he could reach his place of residence.
After seeing May safely beneath the domestic roof, Wilkin-
son bade farewell for the night to his betrothed bride, and
took his departure, with the intention, he said, of imme-
diately returning to H . He did not proceed directly

home, however; but, making a retrograde movement, he fell
back upon the place where the fatigued traveller had been
seen. She was gone when he arrived ; and whether the
circumstance gave him pleasure or the reverse, we have
never been able to ascertain; but, at all events, he now set

out in good earnest for H . What should have interested

Wilkinson so much in this apparently wandering mendi-
cant ? — Pacienza.

_ On the evening which we have described, let the re-ader
picture to himself two aged crones, comfortably seated upon
a rough slab of wood, elevated two feet or so above the
ground, by a massive block of granite which supported
either end. This, together with the cottage wall against
which their backs reclined, might, even with individuals
more fastidious than its present occupants, have appeared a
luxury little inferior to a sofa, especially in that bland and
beautiful hour when daylight dies along the hills, and our

feelings, partaking of the softness of the scene and hour,
dispose us to be pleased, we ask not why and care not
wherefore. On either hand was situated a door, over which
hung suspended a very homely signboard. From one of
these, the wayfarer might learn that good entertainment
for man and beast could be supplied within, by Janet Baird,
who, it appeared, was, by special permission of government,
permitted to retail spirits, porter, ale, and other items.
Lest any mistake should occur as to the nature of the invit-
ation, (or, perhaps, it was a ruse to provoke the alimentary
faculties,.) there was a painting of the interior, representing
a table, which seemed to groan under the weight of bottles,
glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, cheese, and what not ;
whilst two jolly companions, with rubicund faces, where an
infinity of good nature predominated, sat round it, each
with a cup in hand, and both evidently sublimed by their
potations far above this " dirty planet, the earth." At the
entrance to the apartment was seen the landlady, who, with
one hand, pushed open the door ; whilst the other, project-
ing forwards, supported a huge tankard, charged with the
favourite beverage, which mantled or effloresced at the
top, like a cauliflower. The neighbouring sign had fewer
attractions for the weary traveller or the droughty villager,
throwing out merely hints as to the condition of the reader's
linen, by intimating that clothes might here undergo puri-
fication, and be mangled by the hour or peace (such was
the orthography) by Nelly Gray.

The two neighbours lived on terms of the utmost
harmony ; for there was no rivalry of interests. Their
callings were antipodes to each other — one being devoted to
the decoration and comfortable appearance of the human
exterior, whilst the other took special cognizance of the
internal condition of the animal economy. They, of course,
carried on a mutual traffic ; but it was on the primitive
principle of barter — the weekly account for washing and
dressing which Janet owed, being duly balanced by her
accommodating Nelly with a certain potent nostrum, which
we shall not name, but merely describe as a sovereign
remedy for aching bones and pains, and other complaints
of the stomach, to which this petticoat Diogenes (for she
likewise practised in a tub) was very subject, especially
after washing a whole day, or impelling her crazy creaking
machine for the same space of time. It was their invariable
practice to spend an hour or two every evening in what is
termed in the vernacular a " twa-handed crack," either
seated out doors, or snugly immured in Janet's back par-
lour— a small dark room, encumbered with sundry articles
of retail. The subject of their conversation, on the present
occasion, will immediately become apparent.

" They say he's gaun to learn folk ellykeashun," said
Janet, in reference to May's lover.

" An' what's that, Janet ?" asked the other.

" Ne'er a bit o' me kens very weel," rejoined Janet ,
" but, I'm thinkin it's the way the gentry speak, eghin
an' owin, and sichin and sabbin, an' makin yer voice gang
up an doun, like daft Jock playin on the fife."

" Hech, sirs, that's an idle kind o' way o' making ane's
bread," sighed Janet. " It's naething else than begging.
He'd better pit a napping hammer in his hand an' tak the
road-side for an honest livelihood."

" 'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's been on the road
before, following anither trade," said Janet. " I'm sair mis-
taen if he's no a hempie ; an' we'll maybe hear mair aboot
him yet than some folks wad like to ken o'. I never liked
your land-loupers an' spoutin gentry a' my days. They're
nae better than tinklers, that carry off whatever they lay
their ban's on, nae matter whether it's beast or body. It
cowes the gowan hoo sae sensible a man as John Darling
wad e'er hae looten his dochter tak up wi' sic like clam-
jamfrey. But he was aye owre easy wi' his family, an'
gied them owre muckle o' their ain wull frae the first.

TALES OF THE* BORDERS.

29

But the mother waa salt to blame in pittin sic daft-like
notions intil a bairn's head as to read playactorin books
an' novels. Wae am I to say sae, noo that she's whar the
Lord wull."

" Is't true, Janet, that they're to be coupled i' the kirk ?"
asked Nelly. " They say the minister's taen an unco likin
to the lad ; an', to mak things look as genteel as possible,
he's offered the use o' the kirk for marrying them in ; an's
to gie them a ploy forbye, after it's a' owre."

" Guid faith, it's a true saying — ' The fat sow gets a'
the draff,' " rejoined Janet. " It wad be lang or he did a
turn like that for ony puir body like oorsels. The birkie
doesna stand in need o' cash ; for he gies saxpence to this
ane, an' a shilling to the tither ane for ganging errans.
He micht hae provided something for the waddin folks
doun at Michael Crummie's, whase tred's no sae brisk noo,
sin' that kick-up wi' him an' the Mason Lodge folk, wha
swore he gied them up ill whusky — an' that was, maybe,
nae lee. He ne'er, since ever I mind, keepit the real
stuff, like that o' mine. But see, Nelly, whatna puir,.
waebegone looking creature's that coming alang the road,
scarcely able to trail ae leg after anither ? — an' a bairn, too,
help us a' !"

The object which drew the attention of the honest
ale-wife, was, as the reader may have already sagaciously
conjectured, the same forlorn being whom May Darling
and her lover had accidentally encountered. "With a slow
and faltering step, she approached the village dames,
and inquired of them how far it was from the town of
H .

" Five miles guid," said Janet Baird, and continued —
" but ye'll no think o' gaun there the nicht ; it's gettin
dark, an' ye've mair need o' a while's rest ; an', maybe, ye
wadna be the waur o' something to support nature ; for,
wae's me ! ye do look thin an' hungert like ! Tak her in
by, Nelly, an' I'll fetch her some cordial, as weel as a
morsel to eat."

So saying, she proceeded to her shop, for the purpose of
making good her word, whilst Nelly followed up that part
of the duty of relieving the stranger which devolved upon
her, and conducted the " wearied one" into the interior of
her humble domicile.

" Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, na, I sudna
wonder ?" said Nelly.

" Yes," said the stranger, whom we shall now desig-
ate as Mrs B. " Since morning, I have prosecuted my
journey with all the speed which want and weariness would
permit of. But these were nothing, did I only know how
it was to terminate."

Meantime, Janet had returned, bearing in her apron an
ample stock of provisions; and, having heard the latter
part of Mrs B's. reply to Nelly, her curiosity was not a
little excited to know something of her history. This she
set about with the characteristic parvkmess (there is no
purely English word sufficiently expressive) of the Scotch —
that style of speaking which is half asking, half answering
a question ; and she was successful in her endeavours.

" It'll be the guidman that ye're gaun to meet at H ?"

said Janet. " He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae
doot ; for there's little else dune there ; an', indeed, thaf
itsel has faun sair aff sin' that dirt o' machinery was brought
in to tak the bread out o' the puir man's mouth."

'•' Yes — no ; he is not in that line, nor do I know, indf ed,
if he is to be found there at all ; but — but — excuse me,
kind friends, for shewing a little reserve touching one
who"

Here, however, her feelings overcame her ; und, turning
round to gaze on the helpless being that clung to her
bosom, tears from her suffused eyes began to find a ready
passage down her pale emaciated cheek — a channel with
which they appeared to be familiar.

" He never saw thee, my little Henry, my sweet boy !
Metlunks, that cherub smile of innocence which lies upon
that countenance, would be powerful enough to melt the

icy feelings of his soul, and recall . Pardon me, kind

friends," she continued ; « but the name of husband is
associated in my mind with all that human nature can
suffer of unmitigated, hopeless wretchedness. You see
before you the victim of . But you shall hear all."

She then commenced her history, recounting every cir-
cumstance of a tale of misery but too common. As it is.
in some measure, connected with that of May Darling, we
shall give a few of its leading facts.

She was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the
north of England, and, being an only child, received an
accomplished education ; and, from her engaging manners,
personal attractions, and skill in music, she was much
courted, even by those who moved in the higher circles.

At the house of a neighbouring clergyman, Mr G , she

was a very frequent visiter ; and her charms captivated the

heart of Dr G , a young medical gentleman, and the

nephew of the clergyman. On her part, however, there
was no attachment, although the ardour with which Dr

G pressed his suit might have captivated a bosom less

stubborn than hers. But another idol was shrined and
secretly worshiped there. This was a Mr Henry Bolton,

a fellow-student of Dr G 's — who, in calling at the

house of Mr G , to see his friend the Doctor, was

induced to spend a few days with him. His stay was pro-
tracted to weeks, months — in short, till the farmer's
daughter and he, having come to an understanding with
respect to the all-important matter of love, agreed to join
hands for better for worse. The marriage took place at a
neighbouring town, where the couple remained for several
months, living in a state of great privacy, for no one was
in the secret of their union, not even the lady's father.
The finances of Mr Bolton became exhausted ; and a letter
from his father having shut out all hope of succour from
that quarter, he was thrown into a state of extreme dejec-
tion. His temper soured, and harshness towards his wife
soon followed ; for an application on her part to her father,
to whom she was compelled by necessity to reveal her
situation, met with a reception similar to the other. One
day, he dressed himself with more than usual care, packed
up in a small parcel the principal part of his body clothes,
and having told his wife that he meant to go as far as — — .
naming a considerable town, which was situated at some
miles distance, parted from her, like Ajut in "The Rambler,"
never to return. The sun arose and set, and arose again
and again, and week after week, but still he came not ; nor
was she ever able to obtain the faintest trace of him. Her
health began to droop, and, in the depth of her humiliation
and misery, like the prodigal of old, she was compelled to
seek for shelter under the paternal roof. Her father received
her even with kindness ; for time, the softener of affliction,
the soother of wrath, had not passed over his head without
exercising its due influence upon his feelings. Here she
gave birth to a child, the baby which now lay at her breast.
Time passed away, and still no intelligence of her runaway
husband reached her, till, " About a week back," she said,
«f communication was made me by letter, that, if I would

repair to the town of H , I would hear something of

my lost husband. Without the knowledge of my father, I
have undertaken the journey; and God alone knows whether
the information, so mysteriously conveyed to me, be true or
false — whether my hopes will be disappointed or realized.
A few hours, however, will be sufficient to set my mind at
rest. I have wearied you, I fear ; but my present wretched
appearance required some explanation on my part — for, oh,
it is difficult to lie under the suspicion of being a vagra
or vagabond, as heaven knows I am neither." And, clasp-
ing her hands and raising her eyes, she remained for a few

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

minutes in that reverential but death-like attitude which is
assumed when a human soul prays in agony.

Her painful narrative had its due influence upon the
minds of those to whom it was addressed ; and, although
both admitted the propriety of proceeding to the town^ot

H , yet they earnestly exhorted her to remain with

them for a night ; and to this proposal she acceded. After

breakfast next morning, Mrs B- (who must now be

looked upon as one of the principal of our dramalis persona?)

set out for the town of H . What the nature of her

reflections were, as she drew near the termination of her
journey, may be readily conceived ; but of their intensity,
no idea can be formed by any one except by the broken-
hearted female who has passed through the same fiery
ordeal of desertion and despair. She had arrived within a
short distance of the town, when a chaise, driving rapidly
down the principal entrance to it, attracted her attention.
It approached, and from the favours which profusely adorned
the driver, his teem, and his vehicle, it was evident that
some happy pair were destined soon to become its occupants.
The blinds were all drawn up ; but, as the chaise passed
her, one of them was partially let down, and she heard
some one from within instruct the driver to proceed to the
manse by a road more retired than that usually taken.
There was something in the tone of the voice (though in-
distinctly heard from the rattling of the wheels) which
startled Mrs B. from a reverie in which she had been
indulging, and made every fibre of her body to thrill, as if
an electric discharge had shot through it. In mute aston-
ishment, not unmingled with thick coming fancies, horrible
forebodings, which, without assuming any definite form,
were prophetic of wo, she fixed her eyes upon the retiring
vehicle, and, rooted to the spot where she stood, motion-
less as a Niobe of stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs
ached. " Can it be ?" she at last exclaimed, with wild
emotion — " can it be ? — No — no — 'tis but fancy ; yet the
place ! — gracious powers !" Her eyes continued to follow
the retiring wheels, fixed upon them she knew not by what
mysterious power ; and long she might have remained in
this position, had not some person from behind softly ad-
dressed her. She turned round, and her eyes fell upon her

former suitor, Dr G . Let her astonishment be

imagined — we will not attempt to give words to her
feelings.

" It is to you, then," she said, after recovering from her

surprise — " it is to you, Dr G , that I am indebted

for information regarding my lost husband."

" It is," he replied ; " but not a moment is to be lost.
Things are in a worse condition than they were when I
dispatched my letter to you. But let us proceed instantly
to Grassy vale. On the way I will inform you of all that has
come to myknowledge regarding that monster — itwere apro-
fanation of language to call him husband." So saying, they
commenced their journey, which we shall leave them to
prosecute whilst we bring up some parts of our narrative
which have been necessarily left in the rear.

We need hardly say that the morning of her marriage
was an anxious and a busy one to May Darling. It is true
that she had plenty of assistance afforded her by the village
matrons, and by a few youthful associates, whom she had
singled out as especial favourites, from amongst many who
were regarded by her with affection. But still a fastidious-
ness of taste always seizes people on those occasions when
they are desirous of appearing to the best advantage.
Besides, when there are a number of lady's maids, all busily
engaged in decorating a single individual, a difference of
opinion relative to the various items of dress always takes
place, and occasions much delay. One of them is clear that
such and such a colour of ribbon will best suitthe complexion
of the wearer ; another holds out strongly for an opposite
hue • and a third silences them both by asserting that

neither answer the colour of the bonnet. What sort of
flowers would most fittingly ornament the hair, was also a
subject of protracted debate ; and half an hour was wasted
in determining whether the ribbon which was to circle her
waist like a zone, should hang down or not. Matters, how-
ever, were at last adjusted — the bride was arrayed, the
hour of twelve was struck by a small wooden clock which
ticked behind the door ; and with the hour there arrived at
the cottage a sort of rude palanquin, fashioned of birch-tree
boughs, which intertwisted with each other, and were inter-
woven with branches of flowering shrubs ; and upon this
some of the kindest and blithest-hearted of the villagers
had agreed to bear May to the kirk. Some modest scruples
required to be overcome, before she would be induced to
avail herself of this mode of conveyance ; and, after being
seated, with the bridesmaid walking on one side, and John
Darling on the other, the cavalcade began to move. Many
hearty good wishes for the happiness of the bride from the
elder people, and many joyous shouts from the younger part
of the villagers, greeted the ears of the marriage party ;
whilst a pretty long train which drew itself out in the rear,
sent up its rejoicings on the wind from a distance. But
one step must bring us to the altar of Hymen. Side by
side stood the bridegroom and the bride ; and a more inter-
esting, handsome, and apparently well-matched pair, never
were seen in the same situation, as we are informed by the
clergyman who officiated on the occasion. The ceremony
proceeded with due formality — one moment more would
have joined their hands, when a person who had just
entered the church called to the clergyman to stay the
nuptials ; and, at the same moment, a shriek from a female
who had entered along with him, rose so wild, thrilling, and
distracted, that every bosom, shook beneath its glittering
attire.

" Base, inhuman miscreant !" shouted Dr G ,address-

ing himself to Wilkinson, (which name must now be sup-
planted by his real one, Bolton,) at the same time rushing
forward to seize the bridegroom.

He, however, had ere this dropped the hand of May
Darling — that hand which, till now, like Desdemona's, had
" felt no age, nor known no sorrow" — and, unsheathing a
dagger which was concealed about his person, (doubtless
one of his theatrical weapons,) he threatened to make a
ghost of any one who disputed his retreat from the church.
His menacing attitude and wild gesticulations terrified

every beholder, and even Dr G gave way, allowing him

unmolested to quit the sacred place which he was about
to profane, and possibly might have stained with blood.
Only one attempted to arrest him, and, for a short time,
succeeded. It was his wife — she who the night previously
had kindled up in his soul the fires of conscience, as she lay
asleep, unsheltered save by heaven's blue canopy, and
apparently an abandoned outcast.

" Henry," she said, holding up their child, and stretching
forth her arms — " Henry, look on this dear pledge of oui
affection, the child of love, though born in bitterness and
tears, the offspring of your choice — look on him, Henry,
and let the voice of conscience in your breast, which must
be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf. The help-
less darling innocent — of what crime has he been guilty, that
his natural protector should cast him forth to meet the
buffetings of fate, withoutashield— thathe should be launched
upon the sea of life without an oar ? If not for my sake,
at least for the sake of little Henry — for he bears your name —
restore us both to honour and society, by returning to the path
of duty. The arms that have so often embraced you, will
again encircle the neck to which they have clung so often
and so fondly. 0 Henry, Henry ! reflect for an instant
on my destitute outcast condition — without you, I am a
weed cast from the rock, to be driven whithersoever the
storm sets wildest. Think what my sufferings have been

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

31

and must be! — God alone can estimate them. Henry, hear
me. Stay but one instant — Henry, Henry J" And, taking
her child in one arm, she stretched out the other to detail
him ; but the heartless villain shook her rudely from him,
and darted from the church.

What were May Darling's feelings during this heart-rend-
ing scene ? She was not a spectator of it. The moment
that the dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, she sank
into the arms of her father, dead to consciousness and time.
By the same conveyance which had brought her in triumph
to the church, covered with the ensignia of happiness, and
palpitating with rapture almost too intense for the human
soul to enjoy for any length of time without experiencing
pain and a revolution of feeling — by that same conveyance,
not an hour after, she was borne to her father's cottage, a
wretched but a gentle maniac.

Days, weeks, months, passed away, and she remained the
same listless, mild, and inoffensive creature — a baby- woman,
a human being ripe in years and an infant in thought, feel-
ing, and everything mental. Tis painful to contemplate
the situation of an individual overwhelmed by such a cala-
mity under any circumstances ; but, under the present, how
terrible indeed ! To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in
bridal robes, and with all her hopes blooming around her —
how does it humble human pride, set at nought all calcu-
lations of human happiness, and assign narrow limits to
human hope ! And yet there was mercy in the dispensation.
Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than alive to
all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling. Better
the vacant stare, and the look of silent indifference on al]
beneath the sun, than the wild gesticulations of violent
grief, the shriek of wo, or the agony of despair, for the
alleviation of which u hope never comes that comes to all."

Every means were had recourse to for rousing her from
the dismal trance into which she had fallen, to dispel from
her thoughts the gloomy, the dead images by which they
were haunted ; but in vain. Sometimes she would sit
amongst her gay companions ; and, whilst they laughed,
chatted, and sung, as in former happy days, a faint smile
would rekindle about her lips, so rosy once, so wan and
withered now, and for a moment playing like a mental
coruscation, would suddenly expire, and then she would
droop again into the gloom of moody madness, and weep
amidst all the gaiety that surrounded her — weep even like
a child. If spoken to, she made no reply ; but, lifting up
her dark streaming eyes, sparkling through the humid
medium in which they were suffused, like a star in motion-
less water, she would sing snatches of old songs about
disappointed love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts.
And the melancholy tones of her voice would sadden all
around her, as if some powerful spell had suddenly passed
over their minds like a cold wind, and frozen up the fount
of joyous feeling ; and they would weep, too — weep along
with her ; for she was so beloved, so good, so beautiful, so
happy once, and so wo-begone and wretched now. Then
would the gentle maniac start up on a sudden, as if some
one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards home,
would mutter, in a quick tone of voice — " I am coming — I
am coming ! I knew we would be in time ! — I knew we

would be in time ! He is there! — he — he!- Who?" She

was silent now. Many an eye was filled with tears as she
passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale.

Winter had passed away — the vernal eruption of spring
had been matured into the bloom, and the promise which
spring gives of autumn, when May Darling, one evening,
wandered forth from her father's cottage, attended only by
a Irttle sister. Striking into that beautiful and unfrequented
path where she had last walked with him who, on the
following day, was to have become her husband, she had
arrived at the very spot where lay asleep, on the grassy
bank, by the hedge-side, the wife of Bolton. A train of

thought seemed suddenly to rush through her mind ; for
she sat, or rather dropped gently down. 'Twas the recol-
lection of former events which had begun to be reanimated
within her ; and, though faint, it was sufficient to cause a
temporary suspension of muscular energy : her sight be-
came dim, only vague images being presented to the eye •
and she might probably have fallen backwards, had not a
person sprung through the hedge, and, putting his arms
around her slender form, maintained her in an erect position.
The individual who had thus so opportunely come to hei
assistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the
warmth of the weather rendered such a covering scarcely
necessary. The upper part of his countenance was con-
cealed by a slouched hat drawn pretty far doAvn ; but from
what of it was visible, it was plain that care, remorse,
and dissipation had gone far to modify its natural ex-
pression.

May gradually revived from her partial swoon ; and the
stranger, uncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the
languid features which began to assume the hue of life and
the expression of conscious being, he said, in a low, trem-
bling voice — •

11 May Darling, hear me — do not curse me — I am miser-
able enough without the malison of her whom" But his

feelings, for a moment, choked his utterance. " Through
a thousand dangers and difficulties have I sought this in-
terview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and
acceptance of this small gift." Here he flung a purse down
by her side. " Say, you forgive me, May — breathe but the
word, and, in a few days, an ocean shall roll between
us."

But he spoke to ears which heard not. The moment
that May recognised Bolton, reason was restored, but ani-
mation fled, and she sank dead for a time in his arms. He
was about to take measures for her restoration, when the
rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his attention in another
direction ; and, looking over the hedge-row, he perceived
two horsemen, at a very little distance, advancing towards
the village. He seemed to be aware of their errand and
the cause of their speed ; for, no sooner had he cast his
eyes on them, than his head instinctively slunk down be-
hind the hedge. But his precaution was too late. He
had been seen ; and, that night, he was led, a fettered man,

to the gaol of H , charged with highway robbery. We

may as well conclude his history, as well as that of the
other individuals who have been interwoven with our tale,
before returning to May Darling.

Mr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with
which he was charged, and condemned to perish on the
scaffold, although it was only his first offence, and, to do
him justice, he had committed the crime for the purpose of
having it in his power, in some measure, to requite May
Darling for the injury which she had received at his hands.
How wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing
the guilty! Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtuous,
Bolton commits a capital crime, and the woman whom he
had wronged becomes, unconsciously to herself, the ulti-
mate cause of his punishment ! However, by powerful
intercession on the part of his friends, the sentence was
commuted to transportation for life. But it was destined
that he should end his days miserably. " Whoso sheddeth
man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." Bolton was
virtually a murderer, as we shall see ; and the curse could
not be eluded by the decision of any earthly tribunal.
Twas vain to attempt to fly from it. The vengeance of
Heaven would have pursued him through all the regions of
space ; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness
and disguise, would have struck its victim down. In a
skirmish with the natives of the place to which he had been
ransported, he was taken prisoner, and by them put to a
cruel and lingering death.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

After the painful interview with her husband in the
church of Grassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father,
secluding herself from the world, and devoting her time to
household duties and the education of her son. Rumours
of the death of her husband penetrated at last to the remote
part of the country where she resided, and, on its being

officially authenticated, Dr G , who had commenced

practice in a neighbouring town, became a frequent visiter
at the farm-house. His former courtship was renewed ;
and, when the days of mourning were over, and time had
done much to alleviate grief, to restore the faded charms
of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of the past into
dimness and distance, they were united; and are still,
according to the last accounts, living happily together,
surrounded by a family of thriving children. Nelly Gray
and Janet Baird still pursue their respective callings in
Grassy vale ; the latter never failing, on every possible occa-
sion, to boast of her sagacity in detecting the real character
of Mr Henry Wilkinson, alias Bolton. But let us return
to the suffering May Darling.

She was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which
state she remained all that night, and next day revived
only to know that she was dying. Yes — the arrow that
had pierced her was poisoned ; but the venom, though fatal,
worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the more intense
the heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So is it
with the human soul. It is made perfect through suffering ;
and the more it is destined to endure, the fitter will it be-
come for taking a part with the choirs of saints and angels,
when it shall have thrown aside the garment of mortality
and mounted on high, like the unshadowed moon, through
parted clouds. But May was happy notwithstanding. In
all her looks and movements were disclosed the peace of
mind which passeth understanding. It was diffused, like
light from heaven, over her countenance ; it was heard, like
a rich chord of music, in the tones of her voice ; her every
word and action betrayed its presence and all- prevailing
power. Her Bible, although always a favourite study, be-
came now her sole one ; and by its all-hallowing influence,
her mind looking down with calm complacency on all terres-
trial things, had an early foretaste of immortality, in many
a delightful contemplation of that abode and that felicity
which shall reward the just.

" It was a delightful evening, about the middle of
autumn," says the worthy clergyman to whom we have
been indebted for many of the facts of the foregoing narra-
tive, " that I was hastily summoned, by John Darling, to
visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no
time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his con-
jecture was but too true. In an easy chair, placed at an
open window which faced the west, reclined the victim of
a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had impressed
his seal, though there the deceitful rose tint fluctuated,
which was not so in her days of health and hope. Her
words, when she spake, and that was seldom, seemed to
come forth without her breath ; and the lightest down that
ever was wafted through summer's air might have slept
unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down and prayed that
the gentle spirit which was about to be released from its
mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms of life
and light. She understood distinctly that she was dying ;
and, in token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly
uttered, when I had finished — ' Yes ! oh ! yes ! — Heaven !

he !' The words died unfinished on her tongue, and

her spirit rose to its native sky.

" ' Peace to her broken heart and virgin grave !'

" In what a noble, what a truly grand point of view does
this instance of triumphant faith place the glorious religion
in which we believe ! In what bold relief does its value to
our fallen race appear ! What a luminous light does it shed
in life's last agonies, opening up a radiant vista through

the clouds and darkness which settle on the soul, like the
shadows of approaching death ! There is nothing better
qualified to develope the intellectual faculties, enlarge the
understanding, and strengthen and foster the latent virtues
of the heart, than the love and the study of literature. I
am no advocate for the exclusive study of Scripture — nay, I
am not sure if such restricted reading would not lead to
narrowness of mind and gloomy unconcern about the affairs
of life, and the duties connected with it, if not also to sel-
fish moroseness and illiberal bigotry — a want of commu-
nity of feeling and sympathy with human nature in gene-
ral. But what would literature alone have done for May
Darling? Would the recollection of Shakspeare's finest
bursts of inspiration, where the dramatist seems struggling
with nature which shall be the greatest, have buoyed her
spirit up under the load which oppressed it, or given but
one, only one faint assurance of immortality ? Alas ! they
could only have reminded her of what it would have been
far better to forget for ever, to bury in everlasting oblivion
beneath the waves of Lethe. How finely does the Bard of
Hope write, in reference to the anticipation of eternalfelicity
in the hour of dissolution !

" ' What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly ?—
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ?
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day !'

" Or what could philosophy have done for her ? Science has
onlyreference to this life — its eagle eye has nevercaught aray
reflected from that which is to come. Matter may be tortured
by methods, varied with infinite ingenuity ; but every secret
thus disclosed only relates to matter — there is nothing of
spirit brought to light in all the experiments of the chemist,
in all the observations of the astronomer, in all the gropings
and searching investigations of the geologist ; for, though
he reveals past time — ay, almost a past eternity — the strata
of the earth with their world of organic wonders which
record the transpired history of our planet in imperishable
hieroglyphics, tell nothing of the future. The ocean, with
its buried wrecks and its countless treasures ; the moun-
tain over which the mighty deep once rolled its undulating
expanse, and there deposited its myriads of living crea-
tures ; the desert, which heaps its ocean of sand over en-
tombed cities, once the glory of the earth but why should

we go on ? — everything speaks of the past, but not a
whisper comes from creation's breast of what is to come.
The Bible alone discloses the mighty secret. May all,
therefore, find it what it proved to be to May Darling-
light, when all is dark — hope, when all is despair —
pleasure in pain — life in death."

It was upon her that a nameless rustic bard, who had
been an admirer, composed the following lines :—

" She faded like a flower

That wastes by slow decay ;
Not snatched in an untimely hour,

But withered day by day.
'Twas sad to see those charms,

So heavenly once, decayed ;
And, oh ! to blight thee in our arms

In bridal robes arrayed !

" But heaven commenced with theo

Whilst yet below the sun ;
And, ere the mortal ceased to be,

The seraph had begun.
Calm, then, on Nature's breast

In dreamless sleep, sleep on,
Till angel voices break thy rest

In music like thine own !"

WILSON'S

, arratrtttonarg, anU

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SKETCHES FROM A SURGEON'S NOTE-BOOK.
CHAP. II. — THE CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN

AT a dark period of the world, not yet so far back, in point
of time, as modern conceit would place it, many facts in
philosophy constituted a mere page of fable in the estimation
of those whose belief in witchcraft and other fanciful
agencies was unbounded ; but, in our enlightened times,
things are so curiously reversed, that some of the real events
of human life — the every-day workings of that wonderful
organ the human heart — are viewed sceptically, as delusion,
deception, or invention, by those whose faith is pinned to
the floating mantle of philosophy, though it covers the
wildest theory that ever set fire to the enthusiasm of science.
The facts I have to relate in this chapter, though true,
may, from their extraordinary nature, be apt to be classed
among creations of the fancy ; yet I would rather that their
credibility were tested by the mind of the plain and argute
man of the world, than by that of the philosopher, whose
object it is to investigate truth, and whose ambition it is to
receive it, however inconsistent it may appear with the
ordinary laws of nature

It is not my object to treat metaphysically any of those
powers of the mind which, either in health or disease,
exhibit, in certain positions, those extraordinary phases which
have struck wonder and terror into the hearts of beholders.
The struggling energies of conscience loaded with crime,
have been witnessed by philosophers who have denied the
existence of the moral sense as an original power ; but of
what avail is their scepticism, when they are bound to
admit that this great sanction of God's law is incident to
all mankind — having been found as vivid and strong in the
new-found islands of Polynesia, as it ever was in the Old
World ? It would be for the interest of mankind if those
who call themselves its teachers, and dignify themselves
with the proud name of investigators of truth, had looked
more often at the workings of this extraordinary power —
witnessed and described the agonies of the heart convulsed
by its throes, heard and narrated the piercing cries and the
flaming words that are wrung from the throat of him who
is under its scorpion lash, and felt and told the horrors of
those sights and sounds — instead of inquiring whether it is
connate or constructed by social and political institutions.
Yet this, too, has been done, and well done ; and it is not
because the effects of a burning conscience are unknown,
<>r have been inadequately described, that I contribute the
results of my experience on this interesting subject, but
simply because I conceive they cannot be too well known or
too forcibly delineated, in a country where a struggling
competition of interests and a fierce ambition are exerted
hourly in attempting to still the voice of the monitor that so
indefatigably and thanklessly whispers a better life.

About twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of December
18 — , I was aroused by a loud knocking at my bedroom
door — a mode of calling me to my patients different from
that generally followed by my domestics ; and, upon my
requesting the servant to come in, he entered hurriedly,
with some one behind him, who called out, in the dark,

that Mr T , a retired undertaker, whom I had been in

109. VOL. III.

had been shot by an assassin, but

the habit of attending

that life remained, and might eventually be preserved, by my
speedy attendance. I dressed instantly, and accompanied
the messenger (a nephew of the wounded man, called

William B- , whom I recollected to have seen in his

house, and in whom he had much confidence) to where my
services were thus so urgently required. We had about
a mile to walk — the residence being beyond the town
in the midst of a small plantation of fir trees, and too well
situated for the accomplishment of any felonious or murder^
ous intention, which the reputed riches of the proprietor
might generate in the minds of ruffians. The night was
pitch dark; our path was rendered more doubtful by a
heavy fall of snow, which, having continued all day, had
ceased about two hours before ; and I was obliged to" trust
almost implicitly to my guide, whose familiarity with the
road rendered it an easy task for him to get forward. As
we hurried on in the darkness and silence which everywhere
reigned, my companion informed me that the shot was
directed against the victim through the window of his bed-
room, while he was sitting warming his feet at the fire,
previous to retiring to rest ; and that, the individuals in the
house having been roused, one had taken charge of the
wounded man, others had gone in search of the perpetrator,
and he, the narrator, had flown for me, in the hopes of yet
saving the life of his guardian and benefactor.

On arriving at the skirts of the planting, we met some
domestics with lights, and perceived that they were busy
endeavouring to trace some well-marked footsteps impressed
on the snow, and which, they said, they had been able to
follow from the window where the shot was fired. I requested
them to desist for a short time, as they seemed to be incurring
the danger of defacing or so confusing the foot-prints, by the
irregular and excited manner in which they were performing
this important duty, that they could not be identified. They
agreed to remain with the lights until I came to them, or sent
some one more capable of conducting the investigation, and,
in the meantime, I hurried on to the house, where a most
appalling scene presented itself to my eyes. On the floor,
which was literally swimming in blood, lay the body of Mr

T , with two people — an old woman, the housekeeper,

and a middle aged person, whom I understood afterwards
to be another nephew of the wounded man, of the name of

Walter T , (the son of a brother, while my companion,

the messenger, was the son of a sister) — bending over him,
and endeavouring to stop a wound, made by a pistol bullet,
near the region of the heart. The work of the assassin
was not entirely finished : there was still a fluttering
uncertain life in the body, which shewed itself, however,
rather by its struggles against the overpowering energies of
death, than by any proper living action ; a hemorrhage in
the lungs, paralysing their vitality, and filling up the air
cells, fought, inch by inch, the province of the breath, which
forced, at intervals, its way, by a horrid crepitation, through
the aperture in the side, while, as the wound was producing
fresh supplies, it was not difficult to see how the contest
would terminate. In the pangs of choking, the wretched
man heaved himself about, and lifted his hands to his mouth
in the vain effort to force an entry to that element so sig-
nally the food of life. The peculiar, and, to us doctors,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

well-known barking noise of the cynanche trachialis, (or,
as the name implies, the strangling of a dog,) a few torsels
of the body, and shivers extending from head to foot, pre-
ceded a sigh as deep as the relentless following blood _ in the
lungs would permit ; and, in a few moments, he expired.
Leaving the body to the charge of the housekeeper, I

called Walter T to accompany me to where the individuals

stood with the lights, with the view of tracing the foot-prints
in the snow to the hiding-place of the cool murderer, who
had committed apparently so gratuitous a crime. When
we arrived at the spot, several other people had collected,
among whom were some sheriff officers on their way to the
scene of murder, but who stopped to join in or rather
superintend this investigation. The foot-prints around the
spot where the people had collected were too much mixed
and confused to be capable of being traced for some
distance ; but, further on, they were again discernible and
traceable, and, at one place, the extraordinary appearance
presented itself to one of the officers, of a well denned
figure of a pistol imprinted on the snow, with the finger
points of a hand applied to lifting it from the ground —
suggesting to the mind of every one present the unavoid-
able conclusion that the murderer had dropped the instrument
of his crime in the hurry of his retreat, and had snatched
it up again as he continued his flight. We proceeded
onwards slowly, aided by several lights brought from the
house ; and, though the darkness of the night presented
many difficulties to a successful search, we were still able to
progress with certainty to the termination of the murderer's
route. Whenever two distinct marks were traced, we felt
no difficulty in identifying them, from the unusual circum-
stance of one of them bearing the impress of nail heads, and
the other not, as if only one of the shoes worn by the culprit
had undergone the coarse process of repair, in which, in
Scotland, short nails with broad heads are often used. As
we proceeded onwards, some one cried out that the prints led

to the dwelling of Walter T ; a remark which seemed

to be about being verified, by that individual's house now
reflecting from its dark walls the glare of the lights, while
the footsteps were clearly verging towards the door. I
looked round and stared full in the face of the man, as it
was darkly revealed to me by the flickering tapers ; and,
though I could perceive no indications of terror, there were
clearly discernible signs of confusion, which, however, might
have been the consequence of innocence as well as of guilt.
In a few minutes, we traced the foot-prints to the very

threshold of the door of Walter T 's house ; and, upon

the instant, one of the sheriff officers laid hold of the sus-
pected man, who looked wildly around him, as if he wished
to escape from the grasp of justice, and at last appealed to
me if it was fair to blast the character of an individual by
an apprehension on such slender evidence as the tracing
of a foot-print among the snow from one house to another.
I replied, that I thought the evidence very inadequate to
authorize a confinement, and that, as to the mere detention,
he could, by taking off his shoes, and allowing them to be
compared with the foot-print, remove the suspicion, and be
set at liberty. The man pointed significantly and triumph-
antly to the foot-prints he had that instant made, and had
been making during the whole course of the investigation,
and we saw at once that, although the size of the impression
was nearly the same in both, there was no indication of
nails in the prints of the shoes he wore ; a fact he verified
by instantly taking off and exhibiting them to the officers ;
who, after a minute inspection, admitted that the impressions
we had been tracing could not have been formed by the
shoes exhibited. This clearance was deemed sufficient by
those present ; but one of the officers suggested a search of
the house, in which he remarked, very properly, the person
might be secreted whose foot-prints we had been tracing •
and the party immediately entered. The^e was no person

within, nor could anything be seen to justify those suspicions
that had been roused by the evidence afforded by the foot-
prints in the snow; and the officers and party were about
to retire, when some one pointed to a kind of garret, formed
by planks or boards laid on some cross beams that extended
between the two walls of the cottage, and quite sufficient to
have contained a man. The officer accordingly mounted by
means of a ladder ; and he had scarcely got up, when he
cried out, in a voice that made us all start, that he had
succeeded in his search. I had no doubt that he had found
there tke concealed murderer ; and the silence that ensued
for a few minutes, as the officer rendered his discovery, what-
ever it was, available — coming in place, as it did, of an
expected uproar, struggle, or fight — imparted to the scene,
at this moment, great mystery, which was, however, partly
removed by the descent of the officer, holding in his hands
a pistol and a pair of shoes.

The appearance of these articles, so strangely and provi-
dentially traced by their images in the snow, produced a
great sensation, for no one doubted but that they were the
very evidences we were in search of; and so indeed they
turned out to be, for the foot-prints and the shoes completely
agreed, and the impression of the pistol in the snow was
upon examination, found to be clearly that of the one dis
covered. It was again referred to me whether sufficient
evidence had not now been procured to authorize the appre-
hension of the suspected man, who still remained in the
grasp of the officer ; and I felt myself, for the first time of
my life, dragged, by the force of circumstances, into an
investigation neither suited to my feelings and habits, nor
connected with my profession, for the discharge of one of
the duties of which I had been called out of bed at that late
hour of the night. Unwilling, even with the evidence
before me, to pass sentence against the man, I inquired ol

William B •, his cousin, who stood by me, what kind of

character he bore ; and ascertained from him that he was a
person of idle habits, and had been in the practice, for many
years, of living upon what money he could extort, by threats
or entreaties, from the deceased, who had done much for
him, and had never received even thanks for what he had
done ; that he had known them have many quarrels, and
one in particular a short time before that night ; and that
the deceased had threatened, by making a will, to deprive
the ungrateful nephew (his heir) of any part of his effects —
a step now prevented by his violent death, which would
put the latter, if not guilty of this great crime, in possession of
his property, which was very considerable. These corro-
borating circumstances bore heavy upon me ; yet, such is
force of habit, I would have felt less pain in amputating
one of the suspected man's limbs, than I experienced (and,
though it is twenty years since that night, I have the re-
collection of the painful feeling still) in giving my required
sanction to a commitment that might be the first step in
a progress to the scaffold. During the few moments of
deliberation that passed, before I could bring my mind to
pronounce my verdict, the unfortunate man sought, with a
fearful eye, my countenance. A shaking terror, that chased
every drop of blood from his face, and struck his limbs with
the feebleness of a child, was exposed by the lights that
flared at intervals on his person ; and every one read in these
indications of fear, the evidences of his guilt. My opinion
was delivered in accordance with that of the other persons
assembled. The agitation of the culprit rose to such a degree,
that he fell upon the ground, and, grasping my limbs with
the convulsive clutch of despair, screamed for mercy, till the
echoes rung through the planting, and came back upon the
ears of the relentless abettors of justice. The more eager
were his energetic appeals to feelings that were steeled
against the cries and sobs of a murderer, the more determined
were the people to do their duty to the injured laws of their
country; and as he, on relinquishing the grasp of my knee.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

35

as extended on the ground, laying aoout him, and casting
up the snow which he clutched with his hands, and even
bit in his agony, he was again laid hold of by the officers,
assisted by the people, and carried struggling to the nearest
place where a cart could be procured to drive him to jail.

Next day, I was examined by the law officers, and stated
the facts I had witnessed, as I have now related them from
my notes. Many others were examined, and, among the
rest, William B , and the housekeeper I had seen hang-
ing over the body of Mr T ; the latter of whom, I

understood, gave testimony to the effect that she had, some
days before the murder, heard her master accuse the pannel
of having stolen from him his watch ; and an officer who
had searched the house, and found the watch in a place not
far from that where the shoes arid pistol had been found,
produced it to the men of the law, while the housekeeper

and William B identified it as the deceased's property.

Some days afterwards, a great advance was made in the
evidence, by another discovery, to the effect that the pannel
had been in the practice of stating, to various people to
whom he owed money, that he would pay them, with com-
pound interest, when his old uncle (the deceased) was dead,
as he, in the character of heir-at-law, would succeed to all
his property; and, on one occasion, he had, in some drunken
orgies, proceeded so far as to propose as a toast, in presence

of his cousin, William B , who spoke to the fact, a

quick and safe passage to the soul of his uncle over the
Stigean stream, which to him, the heir, would become as
rich in gold as Pactolus. A great number of other corro-
borative facts and circumstances were spoken to by many
witnesses, which, at this distance of time, I cannot recollect:
the evidence was, on the whole, deemed by the men of the
law sufficient to justify a trial, which accordingly took place
some time afterwards, and at which I was examined as a
principal witness.

The scene of that day was, in an eminent degree,
heart-rending ; the facts proved seemed to strike the un-
fortunate man like thunderbolts, driving him into a state
of stupor from which he was no sooner roused than he was
again stricken with the same paralysing proof of his crime.
The hand of the Almighty appeared to be occupied in
tracing, before the averted eyes of the murderer, the secret
purpose he had devised in the recesses of his heart, far re-
moved, as he thought, from mortal eye, yet now revealed
as evidence to consign him to the death he was unprepared
to meet ; and, as he prayed, ejaculated, wept, and swooned
by turns, the people assembled in court, while they could
not doubt his crime, or conceal from themselves its enormity,
pitied the victim of such agony of torture as he was ap-
parently suffering, only, too, on the very threshold of his
misery. Having remained in court after my examination,
I was called upon by the judge, on more occasions than one,
to administer what relief was in my power to the unhappy
being, as he lay apparently senseless under the bolt of some
truth that came on him from the witness-box, as if to seal
his doom in this world. I could do little for him, when he was
struck by these moral impulses, except by administering
stimulants ; but, on one occasion, he lay so long under an
attack of syncope, that I felt myself called upon to have
him removed, for a short time, to an anteroom, where I took
from him some ounces of blood. I have watched the eyes
*f patients brought back to sensibility, life, and hope, and
seen the ray of the brightening prospect of health, success,
and happiness, dawn on the drowsy orb ; but I had not before
witnessed the return of sense and intelligence to be directed,
at the first glance, on a gallows, and I shuddered as I perceived
the breaking in on his clouded mind of the consciousness of
the situation in which he was placed — the terror of again
facing that court, and that damning evidence, and the re-
coiling effort he made to escape — alas, how vain ! — from the
grasp of the officers, as they p£<un proceeded to carry him

to the court-room. When placed again at the bar, upheld
by the officers, pale and trembling, the relentless forms of
justice proceeded ; the witnesses resumed the chain of evi-
dence, and the unfortunate man was again subjected to the
rack, under the torture of which his weakened body recoiled
with feebler efforts, as exhausted nature denied the supply
of the sensibility of pain. But the charge of the judge,
which was hollow against the prisoner, ingenious in its
reasonings and stern in its conclusions, again revived the
slumbering agoniesjand thereturnof theverdict "Guilty" by
the jury, was the signal for the commencement of a scene
which the hardest hearted person in the court could not
witness without horror. A shrill scream rang through the
court-room, and was followed by the extraordinary sight of
the prisoner clambering over the bar, clutching the clerks'
seat, and struggling, against the grasp of the officers, to get
forward to the bench, on which the judge sat adjusting the
black cap with a view to pronounce the sentence of death.
The roused judge vociferated to the officers, blaming them
for their remissness; but his voice was overcome by the
ejaculations of the prisoner, who cried for mercy, till, van-
quished by the men, who held him firmly down, and even
stopped his mouth, he fell senseless within the bar, deaf to
the words of the fatal sentence, which now, in the midst of
death-like silence, rolled over the court with a solemnity never
perhaps witnessed in any place of justice before or since.

On being carried to the jail, whither I accompanied him
at the request of the judge, he was with difficulty brought
back to a state of consciousness ; but it was only to he able
to fill the prison with his unavailing cries. I could do him
no good ; and, though used to exhibitions of pain and
misery, I was unable to witness longer this most intensive
picture of the most agonized condition of unhappy man. I
left him, but I was repeatedly called to him again, in the
interval which elapsed between this period and the day of
his execution, to bring the strength of our art to bear against
the effects of a determination to refuse all sustenance, and
to resist all the confirmatory aids of necessity, resignation,
and religion. All the efforts of the jailor were not able to
get him to take food ; the unabated strength of his despair
occupied every nerve, and chased from his mind all lesser
pains of hunger or bodily privations and wants ; his moral
apoplexy had extended its deadening effects to his physical
system ; and, as he lay chained by the leg to his stone
couch, it could have been detected only from low murmur-
ing groans, alternated, at long intervals, with sudden yells,
that there was any real living action in his mind or body.
The ministrations of the clergymen who attended him, were
likely to be of greater service to him than anything within
the power of our professional art ; yet they informed me
that such was the force of the agony under which he
laboured, that all their efforts had been unavailing to intro-
duce into his mind any one sustaining or comforting prin-
ciple or sentiment. For many days, his determination to
take no food continued as strong as at the beginning,
whereby his whole system became emaciated and deranged ;
and, even when the burning pangs of hunger and thirst, the
most acute of all bodily pains, rose upon him to such a
height that his moral anguish was forced, for a moment,
to cede some portion of the territory of feeling to their
irresistible impulse, he gave way to the imperative necessity
like a maniac, starting up and seizing the can of water that
stood by his couch, and, after draining it to the bottom,
dashing it from him, and falling back again into the depth
of his misery.

The period of his execution was approaching ; but he had
oecome so weak that I gave it as my opinion that he would
not be able to walk to the gallows. A fever had been
induced by the inflammation which generally results from
hunger, acting on what we call the primes vice ; and now,
when the moral pyrexia had so far weakened his brain, that

36

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the materiel of suffering almost seemed to be exhausted, he
was attacked on the side of the flesh with pains and paroxysms
of agony, not much less acute than those he had suffered,,
and was still, to a great extent, undergoing, from his mental
and incurable causes of misery. I had a duty to perform,
and I did perform it, by applying to this man, who was already
" betrothed to death," those remedies that might enable him
to walk into the arms of his grim bridegroom ; yet, I do not
blush to own and acknowledge, that I secretly sighed that
God would overcome my efforts, and, by taking the poor
victim to himself, save him from the death which awaited
him at the gallows foot. Yet, how vain are the aspirations
of mortals, in those emergencies claimed by Heaven as its
own vindicated periods and purposes of divine wrath ! The
food he rejected, when he was able to reject it, was supplied
in the form of broths, when he was no longer sensible of
the reception of that which was to sustain him for the bear-
ing of the agony he dreaded, of all others — a violent death
before an assembled multitude. He was saved from one
death for the purpose of suffering another, and that in very
spite of himself, through the instrumentality of the most
pitiable state of man, the want of consciousness. When he
came to be informed of the manner in which his life had
been protracted and saved for the purpose of being forcibly
dragged from him by the relentless arm of public justice, he
raved like a madman, expending the remnant of strength
that had been saved to him, in imprecations against me, in
unavailing screams and clanking of the chain that still clung
to his emaciated limbs.

On the day of his execution, he was as feeble as a child ;
but the gallows does not admit the plea of illness as an
excuse for non-attendance. Emaciated and exhausted, he
swooned in the hands of the officers, as they knocked from
his limbs the chains that might as well have been applied to
the infant that has not yet essayed its first attempt to walk ;
and, if the necessary time had been allowed for recovering
him entirely from these repeated fits, the period compre-
hended in his sentence might have expired, and he would
have been beyond the reach of the law. The executors of
justice, themselves the very slaves of form, repudiated all
ceremony, and the unfortunate being was carried to the cart,
to be roused, by its horrid wheels, from a swoon to the awful
consciousness of being in the act of being hurled to the
scaffold, which he had not strength to mount, and yet could
not escape. The scene that now presented itself was such
that many individuals, whose morbid appetite for horror was
insatiable, flew from the place of execution, unable to stand
and witness the spectacle of a human being falling from one
swoon into another, incapable of keeping his feet, and lifted
softly, as by the hands of nurses, to receive around his neck the
cord that was to strangle him by his own weight. Yet I
was forced to witness this sight ; for, by a strange contra-
diction of duties, I was called upon to attend the patient,
and, by the use of stimulants, to render him susceptible of
the pangs of death. Yet what was my art, what my medi-
caments, to those of the executioner of the last act of the
law, whose quick and sudden jerk ended in a moment life,
disease, terror, and all the ills coiled up in the mortal frame
of miserable man !

The circumstances attending the execution of "Walter

T , (though not the condemnation, which was reckoned

just,) were such as to rouse considerably the public attention;
and the prints of that day were filled with disquisitions as
to the expediency of wounding the feelings of a nation, by
executing a man in a situation of mind and body calculated
to excite pity and commiseration, and to exclude the feeling
of satisfaction which ought to follow the punishment of the
most heinous of all crimes. Yet all this was plainly absurd;
for, if punishments were to wait the bodily condition of
malefactors, the art of man would soon cheat the gallows of
its dues, and retribution would be the stalking-horse of

deceit. The unusual sufferings of this individual were
commemorated in a manner very different from the ephe-
meral columns of daily prints ; for Dr , to whom his>

body, conform to the sentence, was delivered for dissection,
anatomized it ; and, two years after, I purchased from him,
for the price of fifteen guineas, the entire skeleton, to supply
a want in my museum, and facilitate the osteological studies
of my apprentices. During the twenty years that passed
after the period of his execution, I seldom cast my eyes
upon that dry crackling memorial of the unhappy man, as it
hung in grim majesty and stoical defiance of the changes
of time, and of those exacerbations of passion which, in its
animated condition, penetrated its very marrow, without
a cold shivering remembrance of his sufferings. On the
patella or knee-pan of the left limb, there was written,

byDr , who constructed the skeleton, the words," Walter

T , a murderer, executed at , the — day of ."

I wrote, on the patella of the other limb — '• For the extra
ordinary circumstances attending his execution, see the
newspaper, published on the same day;" and 1 retained

a copy of the print in my museum, to gratify the curiosity
of those who might be interested in the fate of the being
whose bones, as they crackled to the touch, sung that peculiar
and heart-striking memento mori, which few people, not
professionally interested in the sight, can hear and forget.
The indescribable interest produced by a skeleton is well
known, among anatomists, to produce in young students a
peculiar facility in acquiring a knowledge of the immense
number of bones, many of them bearing long Greek names,
which go to make up the aggregate of the human system;

but the fate of Walter T , which I always communicated

to my apprentices, adding the part I myself acted in the
dark drama, imparted a peculiar interest to the grim
spectacle, which no memory, however treacherous, could, even
with the assistance of years, disregard or renounce.

For a period of fifteen years after the execution of that
unfortunate man, my avocations did not lead me into any
correspondence of a professional character with the indivi-
duals who resided at the house of Mr T , the murdered

man ; but I understood generally, though I could not now

tell how I got the intelligence, that William B -, his

nephew, having succeeded to the deceased's effects, occupied
his house, had got married, and had a large family of child-
ren. About the month of December, in the year , I

was, however, called again to the same house in the fir
planting, into which I had not been since that night on
which I witnessed the death-struggles of its former pro-
prietor. The emergency which now took me there, was the

illness of William B , who had been seized with that

disease called tic doloureux, perhaps the most excruciating
of all the ailments incident to the human frame. We are
entirely ignorant of its causes, whether procatartic or proxi-
mate— all we can say of it being, that it is an affection of
the nerves of the face, and particularly of that branch of
the fifth pair, which comes out at an aperture below the
orbit ; and that it is attended with such pain — coming on in
an instant, generally without premonitory warning — that
the devoted victim of its cruelty is often thrown on his
back on the floor, where he lies, during the existence of the
attack, in a state even beyond what can be figured of the
wildest exacerbation of fevered frenzy. I have seen a
strong man, who could have stood unappalled before a
cannon mouth in the field of battle, running about like a
madman, as he felt some internal monitor (a peculiarity in
his case) telling him that an attack was coming on — holding
out his hands, crying wildly for help, or as if he had been
flying from the clutches of a hundred demons, and, in
a moment after, laid on his back, in the full grasp of
the relentless tormentor, uttering the most heart-rending
screams, and requiring the power of several people to hold
him down. Under an attack of this frightful complaint, I

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

found William B , who, being under the greatest pain

of the paroxysm, was scarcely conscious of my presence.
He was extended on his back on a sofa ; his fingers were
(according to the practice of these victims) pressed on that
part of the face where the pain shoots from ; sharp cries,
keeping pace with the intermitting pangs, were wrung
reluctantly from him, filled the house, and might have been
heard beyond it ; his limbs were restless, striking the foot
and sides of the couch, and sometimes dashing them as if he
would have broken and destroyed all resisting objects ; and
his eye glanced fiercely around, as if he disdained the sup-
plication of mortal aid in so hopeless a cause. I knew the
nature of the disease too well to hope to be able to do him,
at that time, any service ; the patient himself, by the pres-
sure he was applying to the seat of the pain, was doing all
that could be done to ameliorate his sufferings ; and, having
told his wife that I could be of greater use to him at a time
when the pain was off him, I left him, with the intention of
calling again, to suggest the application of the only remedy
yet known for this complaint.

In a few days, accordingly, I called again, and found the
patient recovered from a new attack which had come on
during the previous night. He was greatly exhausted,
looked pale and anxious, and dreaded intensely another
paroxysm, which he said he could not be able to bear. He
endeavoured to describe to me his feelings, when the disease
arrived at its greatest height, and correctly distinguished
between those neuralgic pains, and the fiercest of those that
attack the viscera and muscles ; bringing out, in his unpro-
fessional language, what I have witnessed, that there is
often a power felt by the sufferer of resisting, by some inde-
scribable internal process, the latter kind of pain, while, in
the former, (and the tic doloureux is the worst species,) the
victim is conscious of no power within himself of even
bearing — all his energies, thoughts, and stoical resolutions
being put to flight and routed by the fierce, lancinating,
burning pangs ; and even despair, the ordinary refuge of the
miserable, seems to deny the tortured spirit the grim relief
of its dark haven. As the patient proceeded in his descrip-
tion, he occasionally drew deep sighs, looked despairingly,
and shuddered — all symptoms of a terror of the complaint
from which he had suffered so much, and might still suffer ;
and, after a pause, he asked me, with a timid look, if the
disease was known to medical men, or if I thought it peculiar
to him. I replied that the complaint was well known, and
very far from being uncommon ; but that, unfortunately,
we had not very many remedies to which we could resort or
trust for a cure. He looked as if he did not believe me, or
doubted my statement, and then asked what the best remedy
was. I answered that it was an operation, whereby we
divided a part of the facial nerve ; and recommended to him
the trial of that experiment, for as yet we could not pro-
nounce certainty of its efficacy. He did not, however, seem
to be inclined to go into my views ; and I asked him if he
feared the pain of the operation, and yet dared to face that
of his disease, which was a thousand times greater. He
replied that he cared nothing for the pain of the operation ;
but yet he felt that he could not undergo it. I looked at
him with surprise, and requested an explanation ; but he
answered me by the question — "Are we not sometimes bound
to bear pain ?" And, as he uttered these words, he seemed to
Feel great distress. I replied that I thought we were bound
rather to get quit of pain by every means in our power, and
that all mankind acted on that principle — a circumstance to
which my profession owed its existence and success.

"But if this extraordinary, this miraculous pain is not sent
for some purpose," he exclaimed, " why is it that, the moment
I think of removing it, an attack comes upon me ? The last
time you were sent for, I was seized, after my wife dis-
patched to you the message; and now," holding up his hand
to heaven, " behold it comes again, the very instant I begin

to talk of a remedy ! Yet I must suffer— it is ordained that
I must suffer— it is right and just that I should suffer.
W elcome, ye dreadful messenger whom I fear and tremble
at, yet love ! He comes, he comes !"

The unhappy man spoke truth : an attack of his disease
came on him at that moment, and he fell back on the couch,
screaming, and pressing, with all his force, his hand against
the seat from which the pains lancinated through the bones
and muscles of his face. His cries brought his wife to his
assistance ; but it is one of the characteristics of this disease,
that assistants and comforters can only look on and weep,
so utterly does it defy and mock all human efforts to assuage
the pain it produces. I left him in the charge of his wife,
to whom I gave some directions, rather to revive her hope
and remove from her countenance a painful anxiety that
clouded it, than with any hope of affording relief. As I
proceeded through the planting in which the house was
situated, I heard his cries for some distance j and, while I
pitied the victim, called up into my mind his sentiments,
which struck me as being peculiar and mysterious. His
conviction of some connection between an attack of his com-
plaint and his attempt to get it removed, was clearly a
fancy ; yet the existence of such an idea indicated something
wrong either in his mind or conscience — even with the
admission that a pain so extraordinary might itself suggest,
to a sombre-minded man, some thoughts of Divine retri-
bution, where there was no crime to be expiated of a deepei
die than the most of mankind are in the habit of committing.

Whatever might be the ground of the delusion under
which the patient laboured, it was necessary, at all events,
to remove the idea that an effort to cure the disease had
any supposed mysterious connection with an attack ; the
best way of accomplishing which was, to hold forth, by calling
and applying remedial processes, the handle of an occa-
sion to the unseen power to make the attack, which, if not
taken advantage of, (and who could suppose it would?)
might expose the absurdity of his fevered suspicion or con-
viction. I accordingly called again next day, and observed,
as I entered, that the patient's eye scanned me with a look
as eloquent as words, that I had brought with me another
attack of his dreadful complaint. I ascertained that he had
not had an attack since the one I witnessed, and then told
him, that, as he would not consent to allow the nerve to be
severed, I had brought a lotion which might prove effica-
cious, if applied to the diseased parts in the manner I ex-
plained to him. I held out to him the bottle, but he looked
at it with fear, and said, he could not, he dared not take it —
accompanying these words, spoken energetically, with timid
looks to Heaven, and deep sighs ; then, starting up suddenly
he exclaimed —

" This disease, terrible as it is, must take its course. It
never was designed for ordinary mortals, and I cannot be-
lieve that you or any medical man ever witnessed in another
these excruciating tortures. There is nothing human about
this visitation. Like the forked lightning, it leaves no trace
of its progress. There is no wound, no inflammation, no
fever, not a spot in the skin, to tell that, under it, and, as it
were, touching it, there exists agonies, in comparison of
which the pain of red-hot irons applied to the skinless flesh
(under which nature would claim the relief of sinking) is as
nothing ; for I cannot faint — I cannot get refuge in insensi-
bility— I cannot die. Speak no more of remedies against
Heaven's visitations ; but let me suffer, that, by suffering,
I may expiate. I shall immediately have another visit from
my terrible messenger. Oh, who shall help him that is
accursed of Heaven !"

He turned his body from me, to hide from me his face,
and I could perceive that he shook as if from a spasm of the
heart. I replied that he talked like one under the dark veil of
religious melancholy, or rather like one who had something
on his conscience different from the ordinary burden of

38

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

human frailty, making him attribute to retribution what
was only a disease incident to mankind ; that Heaven was
not against the cure of any mortal ; and that he would, for
certainty, have no attack that day, nor, perhaps, for several
days, especially if he used the lotion I recommended to him.
He heard me in silence, shaking, at intervals, his head,
solemnly and incredulously, turning his eyes to heaven, and
clasping his hands as if in mental adjuration. Starting up,
as if stung by an adder, he exclaimed —

" It will not do — it will not do. I have more faith in the
language of this monitor" — striking his bosom — "than in that
of frail man. I will have another attack instantly. Leave
me, leave me ! Why will you force me thus to brave heaven,
between whose dread powers and me there is a secret com-
pact recorded here — here ?" — again striking his bosom.
" This terrible disease I fear and tremble at ; but it is not
hell, and, by bearing the one, I may avoid the other. So
do I claim these pangs, sharper than scorpions' tongues, ^as
my right, my due, my redemption. God! what a price
do I pay for relief from eternal fire!"

He sat down as he concluded these mysterious words, in
an attitude of expectation of the coming paroxysm, and I
conceived that my best reply to his wild and incoherent
ideas would be, the refuting fact of the absence of any
attack at that time. I, therefore, left him ; and, as I passed
along the passage to the door, I was met by his anxious
wife, who inquired of me, with tears in her eyes, if I knew
what this dreadful malady was, which, leaving no trace of
its presence, yet produced such a pain as she never thought
mortal was doomed to suffer ; and, above all, she was
solicitous to know if I had got any insight into her husband's
mind, which was loaded with some awful burden in some
degree connected with this calamity ; for, since ever the first
attack, she had got no rest at night, and no peace during
day — his haunted vigils, his sleep-walking, his dreaming,
his agonies, and prayers, being unremitting and heart-rend-
ing, as well to him as to her. She wept bitterly as she
concluded this account of her sufferings ; but I could give
her little satisfaction beyond assuring her that the disease
had nothing supernatural about it, as her husband thought,
and giving it as my opinion that the unusual character ol
the complaint might, in a serious, contemplative-minded man,
have given rise to the delusion that it came direct from
heaven as a punishment of errors incident to fallen humanity.
I informed her, also, of my expectation of removing this
delusion, partly by impressing him with the disappointment
he would likely feel that day in experiencing no attack con-
sequent upon my remedial endeavours ; and, in a short
time, I might prevail upon him to allow me to perform the
operation 1 had recommended. The poor woman prayed
fervently that I might succeed ; for, until some change was
effected on her husband's mind, she could expect little peace,
far less happiness, on earth. As I proceeded homewards, I had
great misgivings as to my having exhausted the secret oi
this man's misery ; yet my efforts at fathoming the true
mystery of this unusual imputation of a disease to the
avenging retribution of an offended God were unavailing,
and I left to time to discover what was beyond my power.

As I expected, I fourvd, on my next call, that no attack hac
followed my last visit. The patient was somewhat easier ,
yet his mind was apparently still greatly troubled. I im-
pressed him with the vanity of the delusion under which he
laboured, and prevailed upon him to consent to the appli-
cation of the stimulating lotion to the seat of the disease
In yielding this consent, he underwent a great struggle ; ]
noticed him several times in the attitude of silent prayer
and, as I was about to begin the application of the medicine
he recoiled from my grasp, turning up his eyes to heaven
muttering indistinct words, and trembling like one abou
to undergo a severe punishment. All this had nothing to
do with the character of the simple stimulant I was abou

0 apply, but was clearly the working of his terror at the
implication of a remedial process of any kind to a heaven-
;ent disease ; and I was latterly obliged to use a degree of
"orce, assisted by the energies of his wife, before I succeeded
n my endeavours to get the medicine applied. His fears

and tremors, silent prayers and mutterings, continued during
the whole time I was occupied in rubbing in the liniment ;
and, when I had finished, he fell on his knees and prayed
silently for several minutes, and then threw himself down
exhausted on the couch.

Two days afterwards, I called again, and found that there
lad still been no new attack of the disease — a fact communi-
cated to me, on my entrance, by Mrs B , who was augur-
ing from it the happiest results. On the day following,
aowever, he had a most violent onset immediately before
[ called ; and I ascertained that, for two days previous, the
iniment had been discontinued, in consequence of a return
of the patient's conscientious scruples ; so that I could now
reverse upon him his own argument, which I did not fail
to do, pointing out to him and impressing upon him that,
in place of Heaven being offended at his using remedial
measures, he had now experienced its displeasure at not
adopting those means which Providence points out to man
for arresting the progress of disease. I therefore urged
him, with all the force of my reasoning and power of per-
suasion, to consent to undergoing the operation I had pro-
posed, the dividing of the nerve — backing my arguments
with the stated conviction that, if he did not consent, he
might be a martyr for many years to the most painful of
diseases, and be deprived of all comfort in this world. lie
heard me in vain ; for his conscientious scruples had
leagued with his former terror, and he rejected my advice ;
but he did it as one compelled by a secret power, which
overawed him by its stern decrees, and scattered his oppos-
ing resolutions with the breath of its whisper.

Justice to myself and my profession required that I
should not visit again a man who rejected my advice, and
whose case seemed fitted rather for the ministrations of a
servant of Christ than a disciple of JEsculapius. Several
days passed without my hearing anything of the condition
of the unhappy patient ; but I had no hopes of his having
got quit of his neuralgia, which too often adheres to its
victim like a double-tongued adder. One evening I was
in my study, reading an old copy of Celsus, over a fire
nearly exhausted, and by the light of a candle whose long
black wick indicated the attention I was devoting to the
old physician. The night was dark and windy, and I was
assured that, if no emergency demanded my presence out of
doors, (which. I fervently wished,) I stood little risk of being
disturbed by any walking patients, generally deemed by us
the most troublesome of all our employers. At my side
hung my skeletons ; and, among the rest, that of Walter

T ; while around were other monuments of the frailty and

\ he agonies of human life, all too familiar to me to take
off my attention from the old chronicler of diseases, their
causes, symptoms, and cures. My bell rang with great
violence, and I started up from the study into which

1 had fallen. In an instant, my door was flung open, and

William B stood before me, the picture of a man who

had broken out of bedlam : his eyes flashed the fire of an
excruciating agony ; his right hand was pressed convulsively
on his cheek ; his left made wild signs, intended to supply
the want of words which his tongue could not utter ; and
every symptom indicated that he was under the full grasp
of his implacable enemy. Recovering his breath, he cried
out —

"Longer I cannot bear this. The extent of human powers
of suffering may be overrated by superior avengers. I
must brave Heaven, or die under its dreadful exaction of
hte last pang of an overstrained retribution ; yet death
comes not to mv prayer, and I am stung to rebellion. WiU

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

39

you, sir, use your operating knife against the wrath of
Heaven ? I am resolved. Though conscience cannot be
amputated, this hell-scorched nerve may be severed. Come
next what will, this must be ended. Now., sir — now, sir,
I am at last prepared."

This frenzied burst, wrung by torture from a mind
labouring under some terrible burden, startled and alarmed
me ; and it was some moments before I could perceive the
meaning which was veiled under his strange words and
manner. He had been seized with an attack of his com-
plaint, and, unable to bear its agony, had run out of the
house to seek some relief at my hands. I requested him to
be seated ; and, though I had to struggle with the disadvan-
tage of candle light, and the want of one of my assistants,
I resolved upon performing the operation before the agony
had abated. I rung for my oldest apprentice, and made
preparations for the work, which, though simple, requires
skill and care. The patient was seated on a chair, formed
for receiving the back of the head on a soft cushion, and
used by me for operations on the upper extremities. Every-
thing was ready ; my apprentice came in, and, as he passed
quickly forward, struck his head against the skeleton of

Walter T , that hung at the side, and a little to the back

of the operating chair on which the patient was seated.
The perterricrepns of dry bones crackled as the body swung
from side to side, and attracted the attention of the man,
whose eye, tortured as he was, sought fearfully the cause of
the strange noise. His attention was in an instant riveted
on the figure, and I perceived that his look was directed to
the words (written in large letters) on the knee pan. The
Knife was in my hand, and my apprentice was about to
lay hold of his head. The attitude of the man arrested my
eye, and I witnessed, what I have often heard of, but never
saw before, that extraordinary erection of the hair of the
head, produced by extreme fear, and known by the name
of horripilation. I thought he was afraid of the knife — but
I was soon undeceived. With a loud yell he started up
suddenly and violently — his hair seemed to move with
horror — his body was in the attitude of flying from the
figure, yet his limbs obeyed not his fear; and he stood
riveted to the spot, with his eyes chained on the skeleton,
his lips wide open, and his hands extended. He remained in
this position for several seconds, while my apprentice and I
gazed in wonder and silence on the horror-stricken victim.

" I said I would brave Heaven," he exclaimed, in wild
accents, " by curing a heaven-sent disease ; but is Heaven to
be braved by man ? How came that figure there — my cousin
Walter T , who — who died for me ? Is he not heaven-
sent, also ? See, he moves and nods his grim head at me,
and says, 'You shall not escape the vengeance of the
Almighty. The nerve shall not be cut, and your agonies
must continue to the last moment of your existence.' And
who has a better right to speak these flaming words, than
he whose cause is vindicated by the powers above — he
whose agonies, produced by me — me ! wretched, miserable
man ! — were ended by an unjust death on the scaffold,
where I should hare expiated the crime for which he
suffered. Guard me — guard me from that grim spectre !
I cannot stand that sight — horror ! horror !" And, with
a loud crash, he fell on the floor. In the midst of the
confusion produced in my mind by what I had seen and
heard, the glare of a revealed mystery flashed upon me ;
and I shuddered even to think of what might turn out to be
true. Could it be possible that that wretched man whose
bones hung before me — whose sufferings at his trial, in the
jail, on the scaffold, were unprecedented, and such as no
man ever endured — was innocent of the crime for which he
was hanged ? Even the suspicion was too painful to me ;
and I recoiled from the skeleton, as my eye, led ^ by ^my
thoughts, rested on the grim memorial. The agitation into
which I was thrown rendered me incapable of thought,

" Get him home ! get him home !" I cried to my apprentice,
and sought, in the retirement of another room, some refuge
from these sights, and an opportunity of calmly contemplat-
ing all the bearings of this apparent dreadful discovery.

My apprentice, with difficulty, got the unhappy man into
my coach, and took him home. Next day, I was called,
early in the forenoon, by an express from his wife. I found

him in bed, in the very room where Mr T was

murdered. An attack of his disease was upon him, and
his conscience had roused him to a degree bordering on
madness. Vain, indeed, would be my effort to describe what
I now saw and heard ; the powers of the physical and moral
demons that externally and internally, at the same moment,
wrung his nerves and fired his brain, seemed to vie with
each other in the degree of torture to which they were
capable of elevating his sufferings. His broken exclamations
shewed that he was more and more convinced that the pain
he endured was a part of the punishment of the crime that
lay on his conscience ; and, being only a foretaste of that he
was doomed to suffer in another world, his imagination was
haunted by the shadows of coming ills, a thousand times
more terrible than were those he was struggling with, dreadful
as those were. Screams, prayers, and ejaculations, succeeded
each other unremittingly ; and, as Despair threw over him
her dark mantle he raised himself in the bed, and grasping
the bedclothes, wrung them between his hands, and twisted
them in intricate torsels round his arms, beating his head
against the posts, and gnashing his teeth with the fury of a
maniac. 1 waited until the paroxysm should pass over, in
order to get from him the dreadful truth. His wife looked
on him with eyes where no tear softened the fiery glance of
horror and despair , and I conjectured, from her changed
appearance, that she had heard some part of his confession.
All at once he became calm, and Lperceived he fixed his look
upon me. I returned steadily his glance. Holding out his
arms, he said, with an effort to resist an impulse to fury —

It must out — it must out. Heaven knows it, and
wnat avails it that it is concealed from earth ? Wife, wife !
once the beloved of my soul, know ye that, for ten years,
you have nightly taken to your soft confiding bosom a
murderer — ay, the murderer, first of an uncle, and then of a
cousin ? Turn from me your eyes, and I will confess all —
for now my relief is in confession ; and that will not be
satisfied till I throw myself at the back of the prison door,
and cry through the gratings to let me in for mercy's sake.
I lived with my uncle, but I was not his heir; and the death
that seemed long a-coming, could, at any rate, only benefit

my cousin, Walter T , whose apparition 1 saw yesterday,

and see now — dreadful sight ! My bad habits generated a
morbid desire for money, which I could not want. I stole
my uncle's watch, and heard him blame my cousin. My
fancy took the hint, and I formed, with a care worthy of a
better cause, a deep scheme, whereby I might, by one spring,
jump into the possession and enjoyment of wealth. I
waited the first fall of snow, and, with my cousin's stolen
shoes, walked from that window to his house, where I
deposited the originals of the foot-prints, together with
a pistol and the stolen watch, by introducing them through
a small skylight on the top of his house. I then returned
to my uncle's house by another path, entered his bed-
room, where he was sleeping at the fire, pretended that some
one was at the window, drew it up so that the servants might
hear it, turned round, shot (with another pistol) my uncle
through the chest, and cried out at the window to stop the
murderer. An alarm was raised; some one ran for my cousm,
who was found in his own house ; while I hastened for you,
who became a tool in my hands. Why need I proceed ?
What follows is known. What preceded my crime, I have
no patience to tell : how I seduced my cousin, in moment?
of intoxication, to engage in conversations afterwards proved
against him ; how I got my uncle to blame him for stealing

40

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the watch, in presence of the nousekeeper ; and many other
ingenious treacherous schemes. By getting my cousin
convicted, I removed out of the way the only impediment
between me and my uncle's property. He was hanged, and
I took his place as my uncle's heir. Thus was I guilty of
a double murder. How, O God ! have I been brought to
tell what I have for fifteen years shuddered to think of?
But it has been wrung from me by a heaven-sent calamity,
which has, for these few moments, intermitted, by Heaven's
decree, to allow me breath and power to make this con-
fession; and now, being done, my pain comes again, and these

crackling bones of Walter T rattle in my ears and dance

before my eyes. Whither shall I fly for refuge ? Heaven,
earth, and hell, are against me — my own flesh wars with
my soul, and my soul with my flesh — unutterable horror !"
And he again twisted the clothes round his arms, and
wrestled with the opposing energies of his own muscles.
On the other side of me was a scene not less terrible. His
wife, struck to the heart by the horrible confession, had
fallen on the floor in a swoon. Shall I confess it ? The
instant I saw in her signs of recovery, I hurried out of the
house. What I heard and saw ; what I cogitated of the
part I took in the death of that poor innocent man, Walter
T ; what my fancy conjured up of his agonies, con-
trasted with his innocence, and the injustice that was done
to him, by the misdirected laws of his country — was too
much for me, and I flew for relief to the duties of my pro-
fession.

I afterwards requested my assistant to attend the unhappy
patient in my place. He reported to me that, when he

called next day, William B was in a condition if

possible worse than that in which .1 had witnessed him.
He had contracted an irresistible desire to throw himself
into the hands of justice; and, in order to get his wish effected,
had leaped from the window in his shirt, and had got a
considerable way through the planting, on his way to the
house of the procurator-fiscal. He was overtaken and
seized ; but he fought long with the people who had
caught him — making the wood ring with his screams, and
crying that, as the murderer of his uncle and cousin, it was
necessary, ordained by heaven, and conform to justice,
that he should be hanged.

My assistant had been able to yield him no relief; and I

•was called upon by Mrs B , who entreated me, with

tears in her eyes, to try and devise some means of putting
an end to the terrible state of suffering in which she was
placed. She attempted to make me believe that her hus-
band was deranged in his mind, and had merely conceived
the circumstances of the confession he had made in my pre-
sence. I did not endeavour to undeceive the poor woman ;
but the conclusion I had come to, was almost exclusive of
any doubt of the truth of what had been wrung from the
patient ; and I contented myself with stating that, if there
was any delirium about him, it might be relieved by the
cessation of the painful disease which, in all likelihood, pro-
duced it. She then inquired if it were not possible, by any
means, however violent, to attempt a cure of the disease, in
spite of the opposing efforts of her husband; and I replied,
that the remedy formerly proposed might be resorted to if
the patient were bound down, or held by the energies of
strong men, while the operation was in the act of being
performed ; but that such a step could only be justified by
derangement or madness, and the uncertain nature of the
remedy was, besides, a strong reason against its being so
applied. Glad to grasp at any hope of reducing the amount
of her misery, she was not inclined to hesitate, for an instant,
about the propriety or possibility of the scheme of relief I
had hinted at, and said she would have individuals present
in the house to apply the necessary restraining force at any
time I chose to fix for carrying the purpose into execution.
For the sake of the poor woman and her (Hstregsed family,

I felt disposed to make one other attempt at ameliorating
a grief which, however, I feared, had its cause much beyond
the reach of a surgeon's knife, and fixed an hour next day
for attending at the house, with a view to ascertain if any
consent could be wrung from the unhappy man to allow
something to be done at least for his body.

I accordingly kept my appointment ; but found that
matters had, in the meantime, assumed a different and
more serious aspect. The patient was now bound down by
strong ropes, and two stout men sat beside him, ready to
resist his efforts to escape, or to commit any act of violence.
He had that morning jumped from his bedroom window,
and flown, in a state approaching to nakedness, to the prison,
situated about two miles distant, at the door of which he
knelt down, and beseeched the jailor, in tones of piteous
supplication, to receive him into what hecalled his sanctuary.
The jailor, seeing a naked man supplicating to get in to a
place so generally feared and shunned, concluded he was
mad, and paid little attention to his asseverations — made, as
he said, before God, that he was guilty of murder, and
wished to be hanged, with a view to an expiation of his
crime. Having got his name, the jailor sent to his wife,
and, assistance having been brought, he was carried home,
crying bitterly all the way that no one would take ven-
geance on him, and ease the burning pangs of his mind, by
punishing him according to the extent of his crime.

The moment I entered, I saw, by the peculiar light and
motion of his eye, that he was on the point of madness,
which would likely exhibit itself in the form of a brain
fever. He looked wildly at me, and, rugging at the ropes,
attempted to release himself.

" Men are leagued against God," he cried, in a frantic
manner. " The disease that came from Heaven, as a pun-
ishment for the murder of my uncle and cousin, you are
come again to try to cure ; and these cutting ropes are also
tied by the hands of impious men, to prevent me from offer-
ing up this racked body as a sacrifice for my dreadful crime.
When will this end ? When will earth and its worms cease
to be arrayed against Heaven and its angels ? Why are not
these cords bound round my neck ? Hold off till I
unloose as much as will serve the purpose of a necessary
sacrifice. Two deaths are required from him who has only
one life ; and man comes between Heaven and Heaven's
victim. But it must cease. War never lasted or succeeded
that was waged against the Author of nature. I must die,
even if I should rack and burst the muscles that bind up
this conscience-stricken heart. Away, and leave me to my
retribution ! Cords" (tugging at them) " are too weak for
conscience. Ha ! ha ! when was conscience bound by
twisted hemp ? See, see how they crack, when Heaven's
infliction nerves the rebellious arm that was lifted against
his uncle's life ! Vain, vain man, to fight with God !"

The supernatural strength of an access of brain fever
enabled him to burst the cords ; and the attendants were
obliged to apply their hands to keep him down, until they
could again bind the ropes. Phrenitis, with all its horrors,
had commenced. The history of a brain fever is the his-
tory of man when he has ceased, from the very extremity of
his agony, to interest feelings, which seek in vain for traces
of humanity in the raving maniac ; and why should I try to
describe what never has been, and never will be described
with any approach to the terrible truth ? Heaven was
at last merciful, and closed his sufferings with the seal oi
death.

WILSON'S

fcal, arralrttumarg, anH Emas

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE MEETING AT ST BOSWELKS.

IT is now some years since I happened to visit the pretty
little village of St Boswell's, in Roxburghshire, in company
with a friend who had some stock to dispose of at the great
annual fair then holding there. Most of my readers are
aware that the Duke of Buccleugh is lord of the manor of
St Boswell's, and that a dinner is always provided, at his
Grace's expense, in a barn on the fair ground, for all gentle-
men who have tickets of admission from the baron bailie.
"While my friend was busied with the disposal of his stock,
I, being an idler, wandered up and down the green, and
was much pleased with the appearance of the fair, which
was 'more English, if I may be allowed to use the term,
than anything of the kind I had ever witnessed in Scotland.
The numbers, neat arrangement, and really handsome
appea ranee of the ' ' street" of booths — the gay and well-
dressed parties of gentlefolks — the cheerful, joyous faces of
the lower orders — -the handsome equipages — the green at a
distance, swarming with cattle of various kinds — with abright
and genial sun shining over all, formed altogether a pleasing
and animated scene. Pleased as I was, however, I caught
myself several times involuntarily yawning, and turning my
eyes towards the barn ; and I was not at all sorry when the
welcome sound of the drum announced that " the roast beef"
was ready. I was soon seated beside my friend, who, like
myself, was most ready and anxious to do justice to the
Duke's liberal provision. I have a great talent for eating,
but none for description, so I will not attempt to enumerate
or describe the variety of good things which cfoyappeared
before us ; suffice it, we were all much more contented with
ourselves and each other when all was over, than before
our operations commenced. Commend me to a man who
has just made a good dinner — if he be not a philanthropist
then, he never will be. Happening to glance my eye
towards the other end of the table, I observed that I was
the object of close and intense attention to one of the com-
pany— a stranger of prepossessing aspect, who was seated at
some distance at the opposite side. He gazed at me with
an earnestness almost amounting to rudeness; and whenever
I glanced in that direction, I perceived that his eye was
constantly riveted upon my countenance. At first, I was
considerably annoyed by the persevering scrutiny of his
gaze ; but, after a time, I was conscious of a vague im-
pression on my mind that I had seen his face before ; but
when or where, I in vain endeavoured to recall. I was in
the unpleasant situation of one who hears a long- forgotten
melody, which stirs up within his mind overpowering and
indefinable emotions, though, at the moment, the associa-
tions connected with it are forgotten. A confused train of
visions of the past — of pleasure and of pain — crowded through
my brain, with a dreamy consciousness that the stranger
was, in some way or another, connected with them. I
could not, for the life of me, shake off the impression his
features had made upon my mind ; and I wandered up and
down through all the bustle of the fair, as abstracted as if
I were in a desert — treading upon the toes of the present,
and raking up the ashes of the past, to puzzle out some
connection between them and the stranger; but in vain.
The. indignant looks and half-suppressed curses of those
110. VOL. III.

I jostled or trode upon, alike failed in rousing me from my
reverie, till a violent push from the elbow of one of mv
victims sent me staggering against a gentleman who wa*s
standing close to one of the booths. It was the stranger.

How wonderful and unaccountable are the workings of
the human mind, and what trifling incidents may presen*
us with a clue to the labyrinth of thought we have been in
vain endeavouring to unravel !

In making my apologies to the stranger, my eye chanced
to glance upwards to the sign above the entrance to the
booth ; it was ' ' The Old Ship." A flash of sudden recol-
lection lighted up the dark places of my memory — the
friend of my early days stood before me.

" Sandford ! — in the name of all that's strange, is that
you ?"

" My name is Sandford Grant," said he, " and I know
and feel that you are an old friend. I have been thinking
of nothing else since I saw you in the barn ; but my memory
plays me false — I cannot recollect when or where we have
met before."

"Look up at that board — perhaps it will assist your re-
collection, as it did mine."

f' The Old Ship !" exclaimed he, with a look of wonder
and inquiry. " The Old Ship !" he repeated, slowly and
distinctly, and then he gazed long and earnestly in my
face, till at length the look of indecision and doubt
gave place to a sudden glow of delighted recognition.
" Douglas !" exclaimed he, with a long and cordial shake of
the hand.

" The same, my dear fellow. It is ten long years since
we met, and Time has left his marks upon us both ; no
wonder we did not recognise each other at first ; particu-
larly as it was in such a very different scene we last met,
or rather parted."

We spent the evening together, as two long separated
friends should do, in talking over the events of our early
years, and relating our mutual adventures since we parted.
As I did not know Sandford myself at first, it is hardly to
be expected that the reader can know either of us without
a formal introduction ; which is the more necessary as we
are both to figure in the tale I am about to relate.

Those of my readers who have passed through Longtown
in Cumberland, may have remarked, on the left hand side
of the main street, as they entered the town from the bridge,
a neat red brick-house with an iron-railed enclosure in
front, and a large gateway to the right, leading into the
court-yard. In that house, Sandford Grant and I first be-
came acquainted with each other ; it was then an academy.
The house still remains, but master and pupils are " scattered
to the four winds of heaven." For three years we were
classfellows and friends ; for we were just of the same age,
and a Scottish feeling of clannish regard made us cling to
each other more perhaps than we otherwise would have
done. He was a handsome, spirited boy, or rather child,
and was always ready, at a word, to fight my battles as well
as his own. He was a great favourite on account of his
frank, liberal disposition ; but the most unlucky little dog
that ever lived. If ever there was any mischief going on,
he was sure to be concerned in it, and as sure of being dis-
covered and punished • if there was only one puddle in tl

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

road oa a Sunday, he, somehow or other, contrived to go
out of his way to tumble into it, dirty bis white stockings,
and be recommended by the mistress to her husband's ten-
der mercies. In fact, he was constantly getting into scrapes ;
so much so that " Sandford's luck" became quite a proverb
among us.

It was with sad hearts and tears on both sides that we
parted, when circumstances obliged me to accompany my
family to the South. We were then about eleven years of
age ; and having lately read the tale of Damon and Pythias,
we felt assured that we would willingly follow their ex-
ample, and were ready, if necessary, to immolate ourselves
on the altar of friendship. Fortunately for us, there was no
such necessity. The spring of tears in youth lies too near
the surface — it is soon exhausted. We solaced our sorroAvs
for the present, by promising that, as we could no longer
see each other, we would exchange long letters, at least
once a-week. At first our correspondence added consider-
ably to his Majesty's revenue; but our epistolary ardour
soon cooled, till, at no very long interval, our correspond-
ence fell into a gradual decline, and at last died away
altogether. But the fates had decreed that Sandford and I
were not to part so easily. We met, some years afterwards,
at the Military College at Addiscombe, where we added to
the number of the East India Company's hard bargains.
There we were inseparable ; for, with all the warmth of
early recollections around us, our renewed acquaintance
soon ripened into sincere and devoted friendship.

After the usual term of probation at Addiscombe, Sandford
obtained an appointment in the engineers, and I a cadetship
of infantry, and we sailed from England together. On
our arrival at Calcutta, we separated ; he remaining at the
presidency, and I being ordered up the country, to join nay
regiment at Cawnpore.

I pass over the details of my lire in India ; suffice it
that, after ten years roasting under an eastern sun, I was
pretty well done at last, and my liver began to give me
sundry gentle hints that it was time for me to be moving,
unless I wished to remain altogether where I was ; accord-
ingly, I applied for and obtained furlough to visit Europe
for the benefit of my health. Though Sandford and I had
been so long separated, we had always kept up a regular
intercourse by letter, and we had arranged that, if practic-
able, we would take our furlough together ; and, accord-
ingly, we managed matters so that we took our passage in
the same ship for England. Fortune had favoured us both
in promotion ; we had each attained the rank of captain in
our respective corps. In congratulating Sandford on his good
fortune, I remarked, in allusion to our school-days, that it
was better than " Sandford's luck."

" You would not say so, my dear fellow," said he, " if
you knew all. I am as unlucky a dog as ever ; and you may
have reason yet, before we part, to wish we had not met
again."

" Nonsense," said I ; " let us enjoy the present, at all
events, whatever the future may have in store for us.
Come, order your palanquin, and let us be off; the boat
was to be waiting for us at the Champaul Ghaut at ten
a'clock, and it only wants a few minutes of the hour."

Our ship, the Dolphin, was a beautiful little chartered
free-trader, of about 600 tons, remarkably fast for a mer-
chantman— a regular clipper, as her captain called her — and
manned by an active and effective crew. She mounted twelve
small carronades on her upper deck, and a neat brass swivel,
which traversed on the head of the capstan. On the 28th
August 18 — , we sailed from Sangor with several other
merchantmen, under convoy of H.M.S. Albatross. Our voy-
age was very tedious, unmarked by any variety except that
of wind and weather ; and our captain, who was a smart,
active little man, an excellent disciplinarian, and much
beloved by his crew was dreadfully annoyed by the deten-

tion occasioned by the dull sailers of the fleet. At last, he
resolved, if possible, to make his escape, and make the best
of his way home. After we left St Helena, an opportunity,
unfortunately for us, soon presented itself. One squally
evening, the frigate made a signal for the convoy to carry
easy sail, and to watch the Commodore's motions during the
night. Soon after dark, the wind freshened up to a strong
breeze, with passing squalls and heavy rain at times. With
tier topgallantsails set over single-reefed topsails, the little
Dolphin bounded over the waves in such style as to do
redit to the name she bore ; and, by keeping a little off
the course she had before been steering, and carrying a
press of sail through the night, made such good use of her
fins that at daybreak not a ship of the fleet was to be seen.
We were all at first delighted with our freedom, and with
the prospect of reaching our destination so much sooner
than we otherwise would have done ; but, upon after reflec*
tion, we began to doubt the prudence of trusting to our own
legs and arms, when we would have been so much safer
under the wing of the Albatross. Captain Driver himself,
however, was in high glee ; he said he knew that few even
of the crack privateers were matches for his little Dolphin.
However, he neglected no means of adding to and improv-
ing the efficiency of his vessel ; the men were exercised
regularly at the guns, the passengers and servants drilled
in the use of the muskets, and every precaution was adopted
which skill and experience could suggest, to make our means
of defence as available as possible.

In this way our time passed away stirringly and pleasantly
enough, till we lost the south-east trade, and then we were
tormented for nearly three weeks with calms and burning
heat during the day, and heavy unceasing rains during the
night. To add to our discomforts, a great mortality had
taken place among our live stock, and we were for days
floating about among a whole fleet of dead ducks and fowls,
with the pleasant prospect before us of salt junk and hard
Curtis* for the rest of the voyage.

" My old luck," said Sandford.

We had, at last, contrived to crawl as far as four degrees
north, when, one afternoon, to our great joy, we observed signs
of change in the weather. Light grey clouds were beginning
to appear to the northward ; and we watched, with great
interest, those " ships of heaven," slowly and gradually
moving upwards. Light cat's-paws began to ruffle the
waters, and every here and there we saw in the distance
shoals of fish, sporting amid the roughness which the light
and partial airs produced upon the surface. But we were
still lying becalmed ; the awnings were all spread, but the
heat was oppressive; and the little Dolphin was rolling
heavily in the long sea, dipping her bright sides deep into
the water. A long dark line was now visible on the horizon
to the eastward, which gradually spread and neared us : —

" Thank Goodness ! — there is a breeze at last," said
Captain Driver ; and, in half an hour's time, the Dolphin
was once more dancing along, like a living creature, over the
waves. During the night, the wind drew gradually round to
the northward ; and, before morning, we had a fine steady
north-east trade, which carried us as far as twenty-nine
degrees north. From this time nothing particular occurred,
till we arrived nearly in the parallel of the English Channel
— the Lizard bearing about north-east-by-east of us, fifteen
hundred miles distant. Here, after a succession of south-
easterly breezes, we had another taste of " ?andford's luck,"
in the shape of a calm of two days' duration. On the
morning of the third day, we were surprised by seeing, at
some six or seven miles' distance to the south-west, a long,
low, rakish-looking brig, with her royals furled and courses
hauled up, and a pennant flying at the mast head. Imme-
diately on noticing us, she hoisted an English ensign, and
fired a gun. Our boatswain, an old man-of-war's-man,
~* A famous biscuit bakcr^

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

43

immediately exclaimed that lie recognised her as II.M.
brig Hawk ; and, upon her firing a second gun, the quarter-
boat was lowered and manned, and the second mate
dispatched in her. Sandford, who was fond of novelty, asked
and obtained leave to join the party. Soon after the boat
shoved off from the Dolphin, a light breeze from the south-
ward filled the stranger's sails, and she drew a little nearer.
We were all anxious for news from England, and watched
our boat with great anxiety, as she went alongside of the
brig ; but what was our surprise to observe that the crew
were all called up, and two of the stranger's men were sent
into the boat! The brig was, all this time, slowly and
gradually approaching us, while we were lying helplessly be-
calmed, watching the breeze as it rippled over the still,
smooth water, about half-way between the vessels. The
stranger was now within two miles of us, when the light air
which had so long been favouring her, began to roughen the
sea close under our stern. A bright flash and a thick cloud of
smoke now burst from the stranger's bow, and the loud
sharp report of a gun broke, with startling import, on our
ears, while, at the same moment, the English ensign was
hauled down, and the white flag of France floated proudly
in its stead, and a red cornet fluttered at the main.

" Here's a pretty business !" said Captain Driver. " We
will give them a run for it, however."

In an instant, all was bustle and activity on board the
little Dolphin : every stitch of canvass was spread to catch
the coming breeze — two of the guns were trained aft, and
pointed out of the cabin windows- — not a voice was heard
on board, but that of the Captain — the men moved actively
and noiselessly about, watching their commander's eye, and
in prompt obedience to his orders. The little Dolphin her-
self seemed conscious that danger was near; so silently did
she slip through the water, as her lofty sails swelled out
with the b'ght but steady breeze. There was such a hush
among us on board, after all the sails had been set, that the
only sound heard was the hissing noise made by the ship as
she cut rapidly through the smooth water, and the small
bubbles floated away astern. Presently a tiny wave raised
its white crest here and there, and broke with a gentle
murmur ; there was glad music in the sound — for it was a
sign that the breeze was freshening. In the course of an
hour, though the water was still smooth, the Dolphin was
beginning to speak audibly, and the white foam bells danced
merrily past her.

In the meantime, the stranger had not been idle. She
had at first made use of her sweeps ; but, as the breeze
freshened, she laid them in. Her lofty spars were crowded
with canvass, and she seemed to be rather gaining upon vs.
We could see that her decks were crowded with men ; and
every now and then she sent a shot after us.

" Talk away, my boys," said the gallant little captain ;
" I have no time to return the compliment. If I can only
keep clear of you till dark, I will weather you yet." The
poor little Dolphin glided away beautifully, and proved thai
she well merited her good character ; for, after some hours'
chase, the privateer had gained but little upon us ; but still
there appeared no chance of our escaping in the long run.
About noon, the enemy was within range, and no ^ sooner
made the discovery than she began blazing away with her
bow -guns, in hopes of disabling us ; but Fortune, for once in
her life, favoured the weaker party. The privateer's shot
riddled our sails ; but our spars and hull were as yet un-
harmed, when a well-aimed shot from one of our stern-
chasers, went through her foretopgallantsail, and struck
the mast just above the cap. Three cheers burst from our
gallant crew, as they saw her small masts first bend, then
fall forward together before the foretopsail, dragging with
them the mainroyal and skysail masts. The sailing oi
the two vessels was so nearly equal that we now had a
decided advantage over the enemy, which Captain Driver

did all in his power to make the most of. Two of the fore-
most guns were trained aft, and the men vrere all ordered
to lie down on the deck close to the tafferel, to bring the
ship more by the stern. There were active hands, however,
on board the privateer. In a wonderfully short time, the
wreck was cleared away, and new spars had replaced the
crippled ones. She came crawling quickly up again ; and it
was evident to all on board the Dolphin, that, unless some
unforeseen accident saved us, a few hours would seal our fate.

It was now late in the evening ; the sun had set, and
dark, lowering clouds were hanging over the horizon to the
westward. The water was still tolerably smooth, and the
wind was a little on our starboard quarter ; the privateer
was coming up rather to leeward, gaining rapidly upon us,
and peppering away as fast as she could with her bow-
chasers. Some of her shot told upon our hull, smashing
the cabin bulk-heads, but hurting no one ; and, fortunately,
our spars were as yet untouched. But she was not so lucky
— for we could see, by their getting preventer-backstays
upon her foretopmast, that the mast was crippled. Captain
Driver perceived that there was no chance of escaping
much longer by fast sailing, and he determined to try what
stratagem could do for us. He called his men round him,
and explained to them what his intentions were; telling
them that everything depended upon their energy and
activity, and promising them, in the name of his owners,
a handsome reward if they succeeded in saving the ship.
Immediately after the next shot fired by the privateer, the
man at the helm, by Captain Driver's orders, began to
yaw the ship about — the stunsails were hauled in — the royal
sheets let go — the sails clued up, but not furled — the top-
gallantsails lowered, and the colours hauled down. Every
movement must have appeared to the enemy indicative of
terror and indecision ; and we could distinctly hear the
cheers with which they hailed the lowering of our ensign-
In the midst of our apparent confusion, the yards of the
Dolphin were quietly drawn forward to starboard, and the
men and passengers stationed at the topgallant and royal
halyards, and royal sheets. The privateer, which some of
our men now recognised as the notorious Hercule of Brest,
came bowling upon our larboard quarter, taking in and
furling all her small sails, and hauling up her courses.
When she was so close to us that we might almost have
i thrown a biscuit on board, the French captain jumped
upon the bulwark with his trumpet in his hand, as if to
hail us.

" Now, my lad," said Driver to the man at the helm,
" remember what I told you. When I call out to you to
put the helm hard a-starboard, put it hard a-port."

The privateer Captain was just putting the trumpet to
his lips, when Captain Driver bawled out " Put the helm
hard a-starboard !"

As he expected, this order was instantly echoed on board
the privateer, who thought we intended to try and run
aboard of him. As I said before, the wind was a little on
our starboard quarter; and the Frenchman, by paying
quickly of, threw his sails aback ; while the little Dolphin,
her helm having been put to port instead of starboard, fleAV
up to the wind, and, her yards being all ready braced up,
darted away like an arrow to windward — this being her
favourite sailing point ; at the same moment, the topgal-
lant sails were sheeted home and set, and the royals hoisted.

It was some little time before the privateer recovered fron
tne surprise and confusion occasioned by this unexpecte
manoeuvre ; and, by the time her yards were trimmed and
sails set, the Dolphin had again a good start of her.
now had reason to bless the fortunate shot that had cripple
her foretopmast ; for she was afraid to carry such a press
of sail as she otherwise would have done. However, dn
abled as she was, she was still a match for us, and kc]
throwing her shot after us, in token of her friendly fi

44

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" Hurra, my little beauty !" said Captain Driver, apostro-
phizing his ship. " Another hour, and we are safe."

The privateer was gaining upon us slowly hut surely,
when the night, which, fortunately for us, was dark and
gloomy, set in. Captain Driver kept a light burning in the
stern cabin, and gave strict orders that every other light in
the ship should be put out. He then had a large water-
butt sawed in half, and fitted into it a light bamboo staff,
to the end of which a lantern was affixed. The tub was
well ballasted; and, when all was ready, it was lowered
down nearly to the water's edge astern, the lantern lighted,
and the lamp in the captain's cabin extinguished. Just as
the lanyards were let go, and the tub, with its decoy light,
fell into the water, we fired both our stern chasers, to deceive
ihe enemy, and immediately bore up, and stood away, under
a press of sail, to the westward. The night was pitch
dark ; the wind drawing round to the southward and west-
ward, and with every appearance of further change.

Our ruse succeeded completely. "We were only aware of
the privateer's position by the bright flashes of her guns, as
she .fired them in chase, as she thought ; and by the
twinkling light of the floating lantern, which was, at last,
suddenly extinguished, after a brisk fire from the French-
man. We ran, for a couple of hours, to the westward;
and then, the wind gradually heading us, we kept away
again for the Channel, and, before morning, we had a fine
staggering westerly breeze to help us along.

At daylight, nothing was to be seen from the mast-head ;
and we cheerfully pursued our voyage, rejoicing in our
fortunate escape. We had now time to think of and to
lament the hard fate of our shipmates, who had been so
cleverly entrapped.

" Sandford'sluck, again/' said I. "Poorfellow, how strange
it is that such a fatality always seems to attend him !"

" You forget," said Captain Driver, " that the men who
are with him are in the same unlucky predicament, and of
course are equally unfortunate. But it is curious to observe
how some men are favoured and others persecuted by for-
tune. When I was a youngster, I sailed with a captain (a
smart, active, intelligent man he was) who told me that ever
since he had commanded a ship, each alternate voyage had
always been an unlucky one. ' And this,' said he, ' is my
unlucky one.' And sure enough it was so ; for, from the
commencement to the close of it, it was one constant series
of misfortunes. However, I have no doubt our poor lads
will be well enough off on board the privateer — the French
are fine fellows after all; but I do not envy them the
quarters that await them on shore."

The breeze continued steady ; and, in about ten days' time,
we had run down great part of our distance from the
Lizard, which we expected to make in two days more.
One morning, the man at the mast-head reported a large
ship to the southward, and Captain Driver made her out to
be a man-of-war. We immediately crowded all sail, with
the horrors of a French prison before us ; but she had already
noticed us, and came bowling after us, firing a gun to bring
us to, and hoisting English colours. After a long and
anxious survey of the stranger, Captain Driver was satisfied
that she was an English frigate, and accordingly hoisted his
colours and hove to. From the lieutenant who boarded us,

we learned that the frigate was H.M.S. , bound to

Spithead. When we related to him our adventure with the
privateer, he told us that it was no wonder we were
deceived; for that the Hercule was often mistaken for
the Hawk, and that the real Hawk was cruising about
the chops of the Channel, in hopes of falling in with her.
We followed in the wake of the frigate, up Channel,
and, on the 1st May, to our great joy, we cast anchor once
more on the shores of Old England. I remained two years
at home, and then returned to the East, without having
heard any news of poor Sandford's fate.

" And now, my dear Sandford," said I, " tell me all you*
adventures since we parted company so unexpectedly."

" You may imagine our surprise," replied he, " when we
found how quietly we poor gulls had thrust our heads into
the eagle's nest. The second mate of the Dolphin and I
had hardly set foot on the deck of the stranger, when we
saw at a glance our mistake ; and, if we had any doubts on
the subject, they were soon set at rest by the captain, who
said to us, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile —

( Messieurs, you are my prisonnars ; dere is no use for
de resiste ; call your men out of de boat.'

We saw too plainly that resistance was vain, and we
submitted to our hard fate as patiently as we could. The
boat's crew were sent down into the hold, and sentries
placed over them, and we were disarmed, but allowed the
range of the deck and cabin, giving our parole that we
would hold no intercourse with our own men or the crew
When we saw the privateer's sails swell with the breeze,
and when with her long sweeps she began to crawl along
' like a centipede,' while the little Dolphin lay stationary
and becalmed, we feared that we should soon have more
companions in captivity. Great was our delight when the
gallant little vessel glided away like a fairy before us, and
we began to have some hopes of your escape, knowing as
we did what a character the Dolphin had for sailing.

' Well done, my beauty !' shouted the mate.

f Ah, mon ami,' said the Frenchman, ' do not rejoice too
queek ; before night, your leetel beaute, as you call hare,
shall be mine.'

I cannot describe his mortification'at the skilful manoeuvre
by which you baffled him just as he thought he was sure
of you, and contrived to steal away again to windward of
him ; but, after a time, when his angry feeling had passed
away, he could not help exclaiming —

1 Parbleu ! he is one clevare man, that capitane I He most
be var weak after lose one boat's crew, and yet how he
manage his sheep skeelfully ! 'Tis almost peety not let him
rone away; hotel mos catch heem — he cannot escape long.'
When the night set in so dark and gloomy, he said — 'Well,
begar, I do begin think that capitane of yours is not so
vary clevare man after all. How he most be fool to carry
that light ! — without that lumiere I should lose sight of heem
quite entirely, the night is so, what you call, so tar — no —
peetch dark.'

' I suppose,' said I, ' in the confusion he has forgot it.'

' Not a bit of it/ said Gordon, the mate, to me, aside ;
' Captain Driver is not such a fool as he thinks. He has
some reason for what he is doing, depend upon it.'

After a time, the light, which had kept at a pretty equal
distance a-head of us, became apparently stationary, and we
came up to it with great rapidity.

'Ah,' said the Frenchman, 'he is tire at last. We have
catch heem.'

We all thought that some of our chance shots had taken
effect, and that the Dolphin, unable to escape, had hove to
to surrender. As we came near the light, the small sails
were taken in and furled, the courses hauled up, and the
boat was cleared away for lowering to board the prize.

' Begar, dis is ver extraordinare !' said the Frenchman to
me — ' dere is de light, but I do not see de sheep. Sheep
ahoy !' — No answer. ' Sheep ahoy ! Answere, or I weel fire.'
Still no answer. ' Tirez done !' — A broadside was fired,
and the light disappeared.

Not a cry or sound of any kind was heard after the noise
of the firing had ceased. The poor little Dolphin, we thought,
must have sunk at once ; but yet it was very strange that
so large a vessel (she was large compared to the French-
man) could have been invisible and inaudible when so near
us. The boats were lowered immediately, and furnished
with lanterns, that their crews might see to save all they
could. After a short time, they returned, bringing back, as

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

45

the sole remains of the poor Dolphin, a few broken staves,
and a bamboo, with a lantern lashed to the end of it. The
French captain's blank stare of astonishment was at first
quite amusing; but at last the truth flashed upon him,
and, with a loud laugh, he exclaimed —

' Parbleu ! that capitane is one dam clevare fellow ! He
throw out one tub to catch a whale ; he deserves to escape.
Neanmoins, he is not safe yet.'

He then hauled close to the wind and stood to the east-
ward, thinking that you would make for the Channel as fast
as possible. If it had not been for the name of the thing,
we would have enjoyed the cruise very much ; for the
French captain and his officers were polite and gentlemanly,
and treated us as messmates and friends. Their destination
was Brest, and ours, eventually, a French prison, till we
should be ransomed or exchanged — a pleasant way for me
to enjoy my three years' furlough !

One afternoon, just after dinner, as we were dodging to
the eastward, with the wind at north, a sail appeared a-head,
but too far off to distinguish what she could be. All sail
was immediately made in chase, and we rapidly neared the
object of our pursuit. She was a lumbering, heavy-looking
brig, under topgallantsails, painted with a broad dirty
white streak, turning up at each end with a sheer like
a bow. We hoisted French colours, and fired a gun to
leeward ; she shewed an English ensign, and immediately
began to make more sail, which she did in a regular collier -
like fashion, and went floundering and plunging along like
a cart horse over a ploughed field ; and the more sail she
made, the slower she seemed to go. We were all mightily
amused with her clumsy attempts to escape, and wondered
at her folly in exasperating her enemy by such unavailing
efforts. Gun after gun was fired to bring her to ; but still
she floundered on, kicking up her stern as if in derision, as
her heavy bow plunged deep into the water. At last, the
• captain of the privateer got into a towering passion, and
swore he would sink her when he got alongside. While
the brig, or at least her crew, were straining every nerve to
escape, one of her maintopgallant sheets tvent ; and the
awkward and slovenly manner in which the sail was handled,
excited the laughter of all on board our small craft. The
brig, at this time^ as if aware that escape was hopeless, took
in her royals, and lowered her topgallantsails, but without
altering her course or striking her colours. It was dusk
when we came within speaking distance ; and, running up
close under her quarter, our captain seized the speaking-
trumpet, and ordered the brig to strike her colours imme-
diately, or he would sink her. What was his surprise,
when, in answer to his hail, three deafening cheers resounded
from the brig ! Her deck was in an instant swarming with
men ; and, while our crew were gaping with astonishment,
the painted canvass screen disappeared from her side as if
by magic, and a broadside was poured into our hull, which
made us reel again, and wounded and killed several of the
crew. In justice to the Frenchman, I must say that, as
soon as the first surprise was over, he (the captain, I mean,)

I was as cool and collected as possible. His orders were
given rapidly and energetically; and actively and ably
were they executed. He instantly stood away to the south-
ward and eastward, and trusted to his heels to escape from
an enemy whom he saw at a glance he was unable to cope
with. In a few minutes, from the truck to the water's
edge, the Hercule was one cloud of canvass ; and merrily
did she dance away over the waves. The English man-of-war
crowded all sail after us ; — very differently was she handled
now she was no longer acting merchantman. She seemed
to have cast aside her sluggishness with her disguise, and,
to our great surprise, seemed rather to gain than lose ground.
She kept on our weather (larboard) quarter ; and her bow
chasers were in constant play, and remarkably well served —
hardly a shot but told upon our rigging or hull.

The Hercule was considered the fastest privateer out of
France ; but, before the wind, the brig was evidently gain-
ing upon us. Not one of our shot had, as yet, done her any
material injury, though her head sails were riddled through
and through. This game could not last long ;— the priva-
teer determined upon trying another move. He was obliged
to keep his pumps constantly going, for he had received
several shots between wind and water. Suddenly whipping
in all his stunsails, he ran his yards forward, and hauled to
the eastward. This manoeuvre was rapidly and skilfully
executed ; and, as we shot across the bows of the English
brig, we poured a raking broadside into her, which, we
afterwards learned, did not do so much damage as we
expected, as our guns were pointed too high. Three cheers
rang from the English brig — as quick as thought, they ran
in their stunstails, and, following our movements., hauled to
the wind.

As the privateer had anticipated, the moment the brig
rounded to, her foretopsail and topgallantsail, already in
tatters, blew clean out of the bolt -ropes. This was a glorious
sight for the privateer, but a sad one for us poor prisoners ;
we thought that all chance of escape was at an end., and
that it was impossible for the brig to shift her sails quickly
enough to save her distance. But "impossible" is a land-
man's word — there is none such on board a British man-of-
war ; her fore-rigging was swarming with men in a moment,
and in ten minutes more they were bringing a new topsail
to the yard, and the topgallantyard was on its way to the
mast-head again. In the meantime, her bow guns had not
been silent; a pretty smart conversation was carried on
between them and our stern chasers, and their answers
were most unpleasantly true and galling. Her guns must
have had picked marksmen stationed at them, for hardly a
shot was thrown away.

We were, however, leaving the brig rapidly, when a lucky
shot from her came through one of our quarter-ports, and
knocked down the two men at the helm. The privateer
instantly flew up in the wind, and her head sails took aback;
and though the helmsmen were instantly replaced, and the
vessel boxed off again skilfully and rapidly, yet the few
minutes that elapsed before she paid off and gathered way
again, were sufficient to make a great alteration in our rela-
tve positions.

The English brig was now within half a mile on our
weather quarter, gaining steadily and slowly, and throwing
her single shot into us with the most unerring precision.
At last, an eighteen pound shot struck our weather main-
topsail yard-arm ; and the spar snapped in two close outside
the slings. All chance of escape was now over ; but the
Frenchman, a gallant fellow, was determined not to strike
till the last ; and all the guns that could be brought to bear
upon the brig were double-shotted and rattled into her. ^ Lj
answer to this salute, the man-of-war gave a yaw to wind-
ward, and poured her starboard broadside into the privateer,
with deadly effect; and then, bearing suddenly up amid the
clouds of smoke, she ran close under our stern, and dis-
charged her larboard guns, sweeping our decks fore and aft,
dismounting two of our guns, killing five of our men,
and carrying away our tiller-ropes. The privateer was no\r
perfectly unmanageable — her topmasts were hanging in
splinters over her sides — her brave captain was killed —
there were three feet water in the hold — and the active and
indefatigable brig was playing round and round, pouring in
her remorseless fire. The French crew, seeing the madness
and inutility of further resistance, struck their colours; and,
in a few minutes, a boat came on board from H.M. brig,
Hawk, and the officers of the privateer surrendered their
swords to the lieutenant in command— who, on receiving
them, complimented the privateer's men highly on their gal
lant defence. I was greatly grieved at the death or ;
French captain, who, during our short sojourn with him,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had endeared himself to us by his handsome and gentle-
manly behaviour. He had allowed Gordon the mate, and
myself, to dispose of ourselves as we thought proper during
the action, on our giving our parole that we would not in
any way interfere. As soon as the privateer ceased firing,
the smothered sound of three cheers came faintly up the
hatchway from our poor fellows in the hold, who rightly
judged the result of the action. They were immediately
liberated ; and a prize crew having been sent on board, the
French took up the quarters just vacated by the ' Dol-
phins.'

After a few hours spent in repairing damages, and in
vigorous exercise at the pumps of the privateer, the Hawk,
with her prize in tow, stood to the northward and eastward;
and, in a few days, the Hercule, with the red ensign
proudly floating above the flag of France, followed her cap-
tor into Spithead. As soon as I possibly could, I hastened
up to town, where I found a letter lying for me at my
agent's, to be delivered as soon as the Dolphin arrived, (my
friends knew I had taken my passage in that ship,) begging
me to hasten over to Ireland immediately, to attend the
deathbed of a maternal uncle. I arrived in Dublin in time
to attend the old gentleman's funeral, and to find, to my
great surprise, that he had left the whole of his Irish pro-
perty and a large estate in this country to his grateful
nephew, on condition that I took his name. Fortune was
tired of plaguing me at last. I was obliged to remain
nearly three years in Ireland, in order to arrange matters
satisfactorily with my agent, and to put everything in train
for making my tenants as comfortable as possible. My
other estate is in Perthshire, where I shall be delighted to
enjoy the pleasure of your society, until you are wearied of
ours. — I say ours, because I have a new friend to introduce
you to in the person of my wife."

I accompanied Sandford home, and found his establish-
ment such as I should have expected from a man of his
liberal and enlightened turn of mind — handsome without
ostentation — liberal without profusion. His lady was a
most amiable and agreeable person — unaffected and cheerful
in her manners. I was delighted with my first introduction
to her. Coming forward to meet me with all the graceful
ease that distinguishes a well-bred woman, and with all
the warmth of manner of an old friend, she shook me most
cordially by the hand.

" Mr Douglas," said she, " I am delighted to see you ;
often and often has Sandford talked over your mutual ad-
ventures, and regretted the evil destiny that separated him
from his earliest and dearest friend. Your character is
so familiar to me, that I feel as if, instead of addressing a
stranger, I were talking to an old friend. I hope you will
soon learn to look upon all here in the same light."

It was impossible not to feel instantly at home, where
such genuine and sincere cordiality was displayed ; and, in
a few hours, I -was as completely domesticated at Grant
Hall as if I had been its inmate for years. The very ser-
vants seemed to feel that in pleasing me they were pleasing
their master and mistress ; for whom, it was evident, they
all felt the greatest affection and respect. It is a good sign
of the heads of a house, when the servants grow grey at
their posts ; and most of those at Grant Hall seemed in a
fair way of doing so. But I am digressing. While the
ceremony of introduction between myself and Mrs Grant
was in progress, a young lady was seated at one of the open
windows. She raised her eyes on my entrance — and such
eyes ! However, I will say nothing more about them ; for,
though so much has already been spoken and written about
ladies' eyes, one glance from such a pair as then beamed
upon me was worth volumes of description. There was
nothing at first particularly striking about the lady's appear-
ance ; at least, nothing sufficiently so for particular notice
or description ; but, on further scrutiny, her features were

faultlessly regular, and the expression of her countenance
was so placid and gentle that, had it not been for the lam-
bent fire of her dark eyes, I might almost have fancied that
some pure, cold, faultless creation of the sculptor's fancy
sat before me. Hers was one of those faces which seldom
arrest admiration at first sight, but which seem to display
new beauties the longer they are gazed upon. Sandford
introduced her as his sister Alice.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Sandford/' said L
" Your brother wished to give me an agreeable surprise, I
suppose ; for he never told me that you formed one of his
family party."

" Sandford may have neglected to mention his sister to
you, Mr Grant," said she, her bright eyes sparkling with
animation, and giving life and energy to her features ;
" but I assure you he has not been backward in making
you the theme of his discourse to us. I have often been
inclined to feel jealous of his brotherly regard for you."

" Upon my word, Ned Douglas," muttered I to myself,
when I was comfortably settled into my soft bed, f' you're a
lucky dog to have fallen into such good quarters. A few
weeks ago, you were afraid to move, lest you should
tumble out of your narrow cot, and break your invaluable
head upon a hard deck ; and now you are afraid to move
for fear of losing yourself in this wilderness of a bed, oi
being smothered in an ocean of feathers."

It was bright and beautiful July ; all nature brightened
in the smile of the summer sun, and fair Alice smiled upon
me. Could I be otherwise than happy ?

Sandford was a keen fisherman ; and we used to wandei
together day after day along the banks of the beautiful
Tay — he to indulge in an amusement which -he enjoyed
with enthusiastic relish, and I to gratify my love for the
beauties of nature, which are nowhere seen to greater per-
fection than on the banks of that noble stream. We always
returned home to a late dinner, and the evenings were
enlivened with music and song, in which both the ladies
excelled, and in talking over the adventures of the day, and
the stirring scenes of our past lives.

" What strange beings sailors must be !" said Alice to me
one evening ; " such compounds of contradictions ! — so
lavish, yet so selfish — so daring, yet so superstitious."

" Do you remember that strange old fellow, Rodney, the
quartermaster," said Grant, " who used to be such a favour-
ite of yours ? What yarns, as he called them, he used to
spin ! — enough to stagger the faith of the most credulous ;
and yet I really think the old fellow had told them so often
that he believed them himself."

" Come, Mr Douglas/' said Alice, (e can you not revive
your recollections of the past, sufficiently to favour us with
a sample of his yarns, as you call them ? We have a long
evening before us, and you know we ladies are fond of
novelty and excitement."

" Well, Miss Alice, I will endeavour to gratify your love
of the novel and marvellous ; but, remember, the story I
am about to tell, is Rodney's, not mine. You talked of
the superstition of sailors — I will repeat you one of his
ghost stories, as it is less improbable than most of his
yarns ; and I know, for a fact, that there were numbers
besides Rodney who firmly believed it."

" Well, but, Douglas," said Sandford, "let us have it in
true Rodney style — slang and all. — Don't be alarmed,
ladies ; by slang I only mean the peculi^vr phraseology of
men of the Rodney stamp."

" Oh, do, Mr Douglas ! now do ! Li will add so greatly
to the effect of the story ; and I am sure you would not
say anything to shock our cars."

" Well, Miss Alice, I will do my best to please you ; but
I must endeavour, in the first place, to give you some notion
of Rodney's appearance. Do you remember him distinctly,
Sandford ? I have his figure before my mind's eye — long.

TALES OF THE BOKDERS.

thin, and muscular ; a kind of prototype of that pink of all
cockswains and quartermasters, ' Long Tom Coffin ;' his
round, brightly-blackened hat flapped down upon his head,
with an air of careless indifference ; his thin, iron-grey
hair peeping out behind, as if it was wondering where the
queue was going to ; and his face looking out in front, as
rough and unmoved as the surface of a weather-beaten
rock.

^Well, Rodney,' said I to him, one first- watch, when
his spell at the cunn was over, and he was taking what he
called a fisherman's walk* on the lee side of the poop —
' Well, Rodney, you really do believe in flying Dutchmen,
ghosts, and all that kind of nonsense ?'

« Believe ! — Lord love your Honour, to be sure I do !
Didn't I sail with a man once as had been in a ship
where one of the lads had seen the flying Dutchman
the voyage before, and swore to it too ? Believe ! Why,
ftxing yer Honour's pardon, and meaning no defence, there's
none but fools and long-shore chaps what doesn't believe
them.'

' WelJ, well ; but ghosts, Rodney — did you ever see a
ghost ?'

' Why, I can't say as how I ever seen one myself; but I
knows them as has.'

' Ah ! and what sort of ghost was it ?'

* Why, it's a longish yarn, yer Honour ; and ye're want-
ing to turn in. You can't keep your eyes open like an old
sailor ; it's not naturable you should, seeing you hav'n't had
the same opportunity of larning. You oodn't believe, now,
I suppose, Mr Douglas, that I keeps watch and watch with
my peepers, and always goes to sleep with one eye open ?
And, for the matter o' that, when I'm walking the deck by
myself, I often takes off one of my shoes, to give 'em spell
And spell about.'

' Why,' said I, ' I have seen you keeping your shoes at
watch and watch ; but the eyes, Rodney — I can't swallow
the eyes.'

' Love yer Honour, you hain't half a swally, then ;
when you've heerd as many queer yarns as I've heerd, and
seen as many deviltries as I've seen, ye'll larn to swally
anything.'

' But come, Rodney, let's have the ghost. I don't mean
to turn in till eight bells.'

The old man leaned back upon the hen-coop on which I
was sitting, crossed his arms over the breast of his pea--
jacket, and began :— >

' Well, yer Honour, Jack Rodney never was the man to
lay at his anchors when the signal was made to get under
weigh. I've been at sea, yer Honour, man and boy, five-
and-thirty years come next quarter day ; and there's ne'er
i blue jacket afloat as can say Jack Rodney ever sailed
fcnder false colours, or stretched a yarn beyond its bearings.
When once old Jack gets his jawing tacks aboard, his yarn
runs off clear and quick, like the line off a log-reel in a
breeze. I hates them stuttering beggars, axing yer Honour's
pardon, as boxes all the points of the compass, and never
steers no strait coorse after all. Their words come creeping
out as if they were afeerd the master-at-arms was a-going
to put them in limbo ; but a steady helm and a straight
coorse for old Rodney, says I.'

After the old man had talked himself into a proper
opinion of his merits, he began at once to steer a straight
course, as he called it.

' Ye've never been in Chainey, yer Honour ? Ah ! you
long-togged gentry has a vast to see ! Why, you sits at
home half your lives, and never knows nothing. Why,
noM , I'll make bould to say yer Honour doesn't know how
to make a sea-pie or a dish of lobskous ?'

* Not I, Rodney.'

4 My eyes !' muttered the old man to himself, ' to think

^ " Fisherman's walk" — two steps and overboard.

of a man coming to his years, and not knowing how to
make lobskous ! Why, sir, axing yer pardon, yer edica-
tion must have been sadly neglected.'

'Oh, I shall improve under your tuition, Rodney; but
now for the ghost.'

* Well, sir, you sees when I was aboard the old Bruise-
water, East Injeeman, we wor lying at our moorings in
Wampoa Reach— that's in Chainey, yer Honour. There
was a large fleet of us, all lying waiting for a cargo, with
nothing in the Varsal world to do but to keep the ships
clean, and to play at race-horses with the boats. A grand
sight it was, yer Honour, to see so many fine large craft
lying at anchor, all clean painted, and looking as gay as so
many women rigged out for a dance ashore, with their red
and striped ensigns all fluttering in the sunshine ; and the
lads all as neat and clean as shore-going gemmen. Why
Lord love you, this here craft would look like a cockle-
shell alongside o' them ! 'Twas a sight to do an old sailor's
heart good, to see sich a show of merchantmen as no other
country but Quid England could produce. And then, for
such an outlandish, out-o'-the-way place as Chainey, the
country wasn't so ill-looking neither. On each side of the
river were the level green paddy fields, with, here and there,
a little hill, with a joss-house peeping out from the bamboos;
the green hills of Dane's Island further up, and its valleys
rich with orange trees and patches of sugar-cane. Further
up still, was the village of Wampoa, all sticks and straw,
like, with a great thing like a light-house — what them
neggurs calls a pugodour — standing as stiff as a marine at
attention, on the opposite bank of the river. And then to
see the outlandish-looking mat sails — for devil a boat could
you see belonging to them — cutting across in all directions
as if they wor taking a walk in the paddy fields ! and
the junks cocking up ahead and astern like nothing else in
the world, with eyes painted on their bows, because the
natural fools think they won't be able to see without them !
Then, sir, there's the men with tails like cows, and the
women with feet like dolls, and the children in the boats
tied to calabashes, to prevent their drowning. Why, bless
ye, sir, if ye couldn't swally what I told you before, all this
'11 choke ye outright. Well, but to come to my story agen.
I hates all this here traverse sailing ; I must take a fresh
departure. The chief mate of the Prince Royal, Mr
Pattison, was a riglar out-an-outer, a man as was well
knowed in the fleet, and was a favoryte with high an' low ;
for he was a sailor every inch of him, and knowed right
well how to keep persons and things in their places. He
was a taut hand, too ; but none the worse for that, for your
true sailor, sir, loves an officer as is a real officer, and gives
every man his due, good or bad, without favour or defection-
one knows what one has to trust to with such a man. He
was quite a pet with the crew, though he made them fly
whenever he spoke to them; they were proud of old
Charley, as they called him, and of their ship — and high
kelter* she was in. Well, sir, old Charley was taken ill —
then he got worse — then we heard he wasn't expected to
live. There wasn't a man or officer in the fleet but wor
sorry for him ; for them as hadn't been shipmates with
him knowed him by karacter. Of coorse, sir, when the
chief mate was in the doctor's hands, and hove down to
repair, the second did duty for him. One day, when
Charley was very ill, the second mate came on deck, and
~ee'd the carpenter a-standing in the sun without his hat
m ; so says he —

' Mr Chips/ says he, (the carpenters aboard them ships
were all warrant officers, and so always had a handle put
to their names,) ' Mr Chips, why are you standing in the
sun without your hat ; you'll be getting a stroke of the
sun ?'

<0 sir,' said the carpenter, with a face as long as the

* Kelter— order.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

maintop-bowline, 'it's ot little consequence; my time's
almost up ; I hav'n't much longer to live.'

4 What do you mean ?' said the officer ; ' what foolish
notion have you taken into yer head ?'

' Oh, sir, it's no foolish notion ; he told me so, and I
never knowed him deceive any one yet !'

' Who told you so, Chips r' said the mate, kind and
soothing like — for he was afeerd that the sun really had
got in at some little crack in his upper works ; ' who told
you so ?'

' Mr Pattison himself told me so, sir, last night.'
' Mr Pattison ? Why, Chips, you're dreaming ; he's regu-
larly hove down, can't stir hand or foot, poor fellow.'

' No matter, sir, he told me so ; and if it wasn't him, it
was his ghost.'

' But how was this, and when ?'

' Why, sir, as I was lying awake last night in my cot, I
saw Mr Pattison come into my cabin port. The cot shook
under me, I trembled so with fear, for I knew haw ill he
was ; but I thought that, while the fever was at its height,
he might have got up and wandered to my cabin without
knowing what he was about ; so I mustered courage to say
to him, ' I am glad to see you on your legs again, sir.' He
shook his head mournfully, and said — ' I shall never rise
from my bed again ; in two days' time my eyes will be
closed in death, and in three more you will follow me.'
He then disappeared, and left me with a weight upon my I
heart that will sink me to the grave/

' Oh, nonsense, Chips,' said the officer; 'don't let your
mind dwell upon it. You must have been asleep — it was
nothing but a dream.'

' Dream or not, sir, I feel that I am a doomed man.'
'Two days after this confab, yer Honour, I saw the
colours of the Piince Royal slowly rise from the tafferel, as
if they didn't like the duty they were on; and then they hung
mournfully half-way between deck and the gaff-end : in
three minutes, every ship in the fleet had her colours hoisted
half-mast, that well-known signal that some officer has
struck his flag to death. Poor Charley was no more ! A
circule-her was sent from the commodore, to order two boats
from every ship in the fleet to attend the funeral — and a
grand funeral it was. It was a beautiful sight to see the
prosseshin, yer Honour. There was the boat, with the
coffin in the starn-sheets, covered with a union-jack; and the
mourners sitting on each side of it, towed by one of the
' Prince's' cutters ; all her crew in mourning, with black
crape round their arms, and pulling minute strokes. Then
came the ' Prince's' launch, towed by another boat, full of
the ship's company, who had all asked leave to see the last
of their officer. Poor fellows ! sincere mourners I believe
they were. Then, sir, there was a long line of boats from
each quarter of the long boat, all following in each other's
wake, and stretching from one end of the reach to the
other. As soon as the boat with the coffin in it shoved off
from the ' Prince,' her bell began to toll slowly, and, as it
passed the gangway of the next ship, her bell took up the
knell, and so on all up the fleet. Jt was a beautiful sight,
yer Honour, to see the long lines of boats, with their neat
jacks fluttering half-mast from the stuffs ; the men of each
boat dressed alike ; some crews in blue jackets, others in
white, but all with the crape round their arms : then
the flags of all the fleet — English, French, American, and
Dutch — waving, mournful-like, half-mast high; not a sound
to be heard, yer Honour, but the dull sound of the minute
strokes, and the fluttering of the colours, and the long clear
tones of the bells, as they died away further and further up
the fleet : — oh, sir, it was a sad and a beautiful sight! He
was buried, where all the other English officers are buried,
on French Island. Well, yer Honour, now comes the end
of the business. Three days afterwards I was quarter-
master of the deck, and was standing on the foksle, when

'. see'd three boats a-passing, with their jacks half-mask

and a coffin in the starn sheets o' the foremost on 'cm ; so

says I to Tom Rattlin, the captain of the foksle — ' Tom,'

says I, 'what boats is them?' 'The Prince's,' says he ; ' I

relieve her carpenter is dead.' And sure enough it was the

:arpenter, sir ; the ghost didn't tell him no lie ; his signal

or sailing was made at the very time he named. Now,

sir, after that yarn, will you tell me that there are no such

hings as ghosts ? It was my old shipmate, Bill Buntline,

hat told me ; and, if all tales are true, that's no lie.

" There was no answering such a truism ; so I thanked
;he old man for his yarn, and giving him a stiff'ner,* when
;he watch Avas over, turned in to my snug cot, little dream-
ng that I would ever repeat the story on the banks of the
Tay."

" Thank ye, Mr Douglas, for your 'yarn,' " said Alice ;

I really think you would make as good a ' spinner of
yarns,' as you call it, as old Rodney himself."

" What became of old Rodney, did you ever hear ?" said
Sandford.

" Yes. He was lost from the Dundas Indiaman, poor
fellow ! some years ago. I used often to be talking of
liim on board the Dolphin, and Captain Driver told me
that he knew the man, and that he had heard his fate. He
went out to put additional lashings on the sheet anchor in
a heavy gale of wind, a sea struck the bow, and tore him
away while clasping the anchor in his arms. He was swept
twenty yards from the ship, poor fellow ! at once, and all
hopes of saving him were at an end. He was an excellent
swimmer, and was seen to take off his pea-jacket with the
greatest coolness, and, whenever he rose on the top of a
sea, he was seen waving his hat for assistance ; at last, he
was seen on the crest of a sea, but, when it rose again,
Rodney was gone"

" Where many a true heart has gone before him !" said
Sandford, as the ladies were rising to bid us good night.
" How happy ought you and I to be, Douglas, enjoying all
the comforts of a cheerful home, while so many brave
fellows are exposed to all the storms and dangers of the
deep !"

I was happy ; I had felt like a new man ever since my
visit to Perthshire; a gleam of sunshine had brightened
the dark and gloomy path of my life. I was no longer an
isolated being — I had met with congenial hearts — I con-
trasted with gratitude the present with the past, and looked
forward with hope to a calm and happy future. I have
before spoken of my first impressions of Alice Sandford :
I soon learned to look upon her with feelings of warmer
interest than I had thought I would ever experience again
towards mortal being. I will not waste more words in en-
deavouring to describe the beauty of a face which, lovely as it
was, owed its principal charm to its sweet and amiable ex-
pression. That her countenance was a true index to her
heart, I have had well-tried experience; for Alice Sandford
has been the wife of my bosom for many years, and never,
in joy or in sorrow, has she given me a moment's cause
to repent of my choice. My friend, Sandford, (Grant, I
should call liirn,) persuaded me to fix my quarters in a
handsome villa on his property ; and I have ever since had
reason to be thankful to Providence for the happiness I
have enjoyed, and for the blessed chance that led to my
meeting with my friend in the barn at ST BOSWELL'S.

* Strong glass of grog.

W IL S 0 N'S

rtart, STratrttt'onarB, an& Emas

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

RANDAL BARCLAY.

" O Love, thou teacher ! O Grief, thou tamer ! O Time, thou healer of
the human heart ! bring hither all your deep and serious revelations !"

Mrs Jameson .

IN the autumn of 1813, as I was passing through a
beautiful burial place, connected with a little town on
the Scottish side of the Border, I observed an old gentle-
man standing in front of a tombstone. The object of
his attention was a quadrangular slab of stone, with
a semicircular cop, fastened into the northern wall of what
had once been a spacious Gothic church, though scarcely
more than one gable Avas now entire. I approached the
stranger ; for my impression was, that I could not be in-
truding on grief. The inscription was much defaced; tall
nettles and weeds had sprung up beneath ; the surface of
the ground appeared to be quite flat ; and several stones
which had fallen from the building, were covered with moss.
Besides this inference, there was something in the sanctity
of the spot and the serenity of the adjacent scenery that
»perated most powerfully upon me. I had been suffering
from severe depression ; but I could not resist the mild air
and the rich succession of autumnal circumstances ; hopes,
that have long since passed into dark recollections, had
regained a momentary dominion ; and I felt most anxious
to meet any human being, who could come (even to the
slightest extent) within the range of my sympathy.

Situated as I was, I conceived that the easiest mode of
getting into conversation with the stranger, would be to
direct my attention, in the first place, to the inscription ;
which, as I have said, was much obliterated. It was as
follows :—

RANDAL BARCLAY,
Died, 2d April 1784, aged 23.
" We do fade away as a leaf."

" I have often thought," said I, " that a short passage from
Scripture, such as this, is much more suitable to a tombstone
than any expression of private feeling. Among other
reasons, this is obvious, that, in many cases, survivors must
be apt to be regulated in their tributes by the first impulses
of grief, and anything but the severest truth is inconsistent
ivith the character of a place which tends to remind us so
energetically that all the excesses of human passion must
decay."

" Sir," he replied, " that is the very principle on which he
requested that no other inscription should be placed over
him."

" You knew him, then ?" said I.

tf I did. He and I resided in the same house for several
years."

" I should wish much," rejoined I, " to hear something
of his history, as I suspect, though I know not horn, that it
involves melancholy circumstances, in addition to a prema-
ture death."

" In that," he replied, " you are not deceived ; and if
you will take a walk with me through the fields, I shall
willingly satisfy your curiosity." He then began to beat
down the weeds with his cane, begging me to assist him,
"in order," as he said, "that people accustomed to visit
the churchyard might be struck with the thought that
111. VOL. 111.

some friendly survivor still looked with reverence on what
had so long seemed a forgotten grave."

"We then proceeded along a range of fields, and walked
for some hours ; but I became so interested in the nar-
rative of my new acquaintance, that I accompanied him to
the inn, Avhere the subject was continued ; and, after his
return to Edinburgh, he was so kind as to send me various
documents in the handwriting of his deceased friend, upon
which I shall draw liberally in the following sketches.

The moon was shining brightly on the masses of snow
that covered the garden of a manse, in which the young
widow of a Scottish clergyman was rapidly dying. A boy,
about eleven years of age, was sitting beside a table, at a
little distance from the bed, with the Bible before him.

"• Mother," said he, " what other chapter would you wish
to hear ?"

" Randal," replied his mother, in a tone so melodiously
faint that it made his heart swell — " Randal, my dear, be
so kind now, if you are not fatigued, as to read the last
chapter of Job. It is full of encouragement to all the dis-
tressed who trust in God." Randal began to do as he was
desired ; but, when he came to the 13th verse — " He had
also seven sons and three daughters" — he bent heavily
forward, laid his head upon the book, and paused.

"Randal," said his mother, drawing aside the curtain, "do
you feel unwell ?" The child raised his head, and replied —

" It was a thought that struck me, mother." Here his
utterance was again impeded, and he struggled in vain to
repress the tears that were trembling in his long eyelashes.
But he soon regained his self-command, afraid that this
exhibition of feeling might agitate his mother. He could
discern nothing, however, except profound serenity in her
large, thoughtful eyes, and he was encouraged to speak.
<f Mother," he said, <f I don't like that part of the chapter.
Though Job had now double of what he lost, he had only
other sons and other daughters."

" My dear boy," replied Mrs Barclay, " I see how it is —
you are thinking that you and I may soon be separated ;
and it would be wrong to conceal from you, that I cannot
recover. But you have many reasons for gratitude ; and
you have a pledge of protection in the blessing of a mother —
though a sinful mother — whom you have never disobeyed."
The boy hastily thrust his hand through the thick chesnut
curls that fell over his high forehead, stooped for a moment,
and fixed his eyes with a stricken expression upon his
dying paient, but made no reply.

Here it may be proper to give a brief outline of Mra
Barclay's history. Mary Herbert was the younger daughter
of a gentleman who had succeeded a long train of ancestors
in the possession of an estate, (latterly entailed,) and who
piqued himself excessively upon his patrician distinctions.
Before his death, which had taken place about eight years
prior to this period, Mary had become acquainted with Mr
Barclay, the minister of an adjoining parish, and an attach-
ment had gradually been formed between them. He wag
a man of the very highest talents and accomplishments, and
of the most amiable disposition ; and, in fact, there was no
objection which Mr Herbert could plead against Mary'3
union with him, except that he was comparatively of

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

obscure origin. Yet, when Mr Barclay applied for his con-
sent, Mr Herbert coldly declared -that, though he would
not make any opposition, no encouragement must be expected
from him ; and it was after many serious struggles on the
part of Miss Herbert, who at first recoiled from the thought
of shewing any disrespect to what she might justly have
considered the weakness of her parent, that Mr Barclay's
proposal was at last accepted. But Mr Herbert kept his
word ; nor, either when the marriage was solemnized, nor at
any succeeding period, did he exhibit the slightest remains
of paternal kindness; and, upon his death, his elder daughter,
Dorothea, acquired right to the estate, in virtue of the
entail, while Mary's portion of the inheritance was confined
t o four thousand pounds — the sum provided to younger
c hildren by her father's marriage contract. Dorothea,
who had been infected with all the aristocratic prejudices
of Mr Herbert, kept up little intercourse with her sister
during his life; and, having subsequentlymarried Sir William
Musgrave, a man whose mind was equally contracted, the
alienation became complete. That this was most acutely
felt by the young wife, may be easily imagined; and, though
she used every exertion to conceal her internal strife from
Mr Barclay, his perception was not to be deceived. Their
union, however, was attended with no other alloy than this
undermining pressure of parental disapprobation and
haughty neglect on the peace of Mrs Barclay, and the
reflex influence which it had on her husband. But their
happiness was not destined to be of long duration. A cold
which Mr Barclay had caught, on returning late from visit-
ing a sick parishioner, had been followed by an inflammation
in the lungs, which carried him off after a week's illness ;
and his wife's attendance on him having been too assiduous
for her delicate constitution, a rapid decline had reduced
her, in the course of four months, to the state in which she
has been presented to my readers. But, to return to the
bedside of the dying mother.

" Randal," said she, " come near me and sit down." The
heavy-hearted boy complied. " My dear Randal," she
continued, " I know your nature is so affectionate that
there is one admonition which I would impress upon you.
Beware of too great an intimacy with those who are much
superior to yourself in point of fortune. I do not mean
that you should altogether shun their society ; but that
you should consider well before you allow them to acquire
any important influence over your stronger affections. Above
all, do not depend too hastily upon those who have risen
to wealth, and whose coarse habits and contracted feelings
have not been refined and expanded by reflection and
religion. How often has your father complained to me,
that Mr W.'s boys, to whom he had been private tutor, and
in whose improvement he had felt all the interest of a
brother or a parent, coolly deserted him when his services
were no longer necessary ! My dear child, remember this
warning — your fate may be determined by it."

It would not be easy to describe the agonizing exercise
of self-control with which the poor boy listened to this
dispassionate appeal. He left the room, desired the
nurse to attend his mother, and shut himself up in
his bed-chamber, to indulge his feelings in solitude and
darkness.

It is the sixth night after the occurrence of what has
just been related, that I again revert to the chamber of Mrs
Barclay. There was only one light in the room, snow-
flakes were drifting fast and thick against the window-panes,
and the wind at intervals whistled keenly through the bare
boughs of an old maple-tree in front of the house. The
nurse, exhausted with long watching, had just fallen asleep
on the large arm-chair which had been appropriated to the
invalid during her illness ; and the little boy hud not thought
it necessary to disturb her. His grief was far beyond the
power of slumber; and, unconscious of time, he continued

sitting by his mother's side, and occasionally administering
a little wine and other cordials. Speech had, by this time,
deserted Mrs Barclay, and she appeared nearly in the same
state for about an hour longer, when Randal, observing he
knew not what, rose and pressed his fingers on her pulse.
He felt one throb ; after a considerable interval, a second ;
after a still greater, a third. A slight convulsion succeeded,
and he saw that " all was past."

Sheridan observed, when lamenting his amiable wife,
that, in relation to survivors, there is a distinction between
tf the sting of death" and " the victory of the grave" —
viz., the pain of seeing a friend die, and the pain of parting
from the remains ; and, among those cases in which the
latter feeling may generally be supposed to act most power-
fully, we may include that of a child who has been deprived
of a parent. The boy would sit for hours beside the body
of his mother, contemplating, with unutterable reverence,
the saintly repose of her features, and reflecting how kind
she had uniformly been to him. " A tear," says Bloomfield,
" is a witness which all hearts believe."* But none are so far
removed from suspicion as those which the dying shed in
their anxiety about the lot of the living ; and it was only
jive hours before Mrs Barclay's death, that, while she was
beading over Randal, (who had laid his head on the pillow,)
and uttering some words of encouragement, he felt a
burning drop fall upon his brow. In after years, he thought
that this was, as it were, a second baptism, to proclaim him
tf a sufferer," as the first was intended to proclaim him " a
Christian."

He was occupied in the manner we have described, when,
after a gentle tap at the door, a man entered with implements
for fastening the coffin-lid, accompanied by a gentleman
whom Mrs Barclay, with Randal's consent, had appointed
to be his sole trustee. He approached the boy, and, expecting
that he would be quite overcome, attempted to say something
in the way of consolation — an effort which his own feelings
rendered extremely difficult. In this supposition, however,
he was deceived. Randal's grief was too profound to be
clamorous. He gazed once more on the countenance of his
mother, then took his friend Mr Limont by the hand,
and walked to the window, where he stood with apparent
composure till the mournful ceremony was concluded ; and
even when the undertaker had retired, he simply remarked,
though in a low and broken tone —

" How long it seems since my mother died !"

There had been a thaw for some days ; but it was now
a hard frost, and the sun was shining keenly, as the
solemn procession moved along the lane that led to the
churchyard. Flocks of sparrows that had been feeding on
the haws and brier-berries, darted joyously from the hedges,
and the notes of the redbreast were occasionally heard from
the smoking boughs of the hazels and alders. But the
partial restoration of nature had no effect on the heart of
the boy, as the coffin was borne along the path that had
been cut for it through the crystallized snow wreaths.

We must now pass over various details connected
with poor Randal's final adieu to what had once been
his happy home, the arrangement of his patrimonial affairs,
and his removal to Edinburgh, where he was received
with almost maternal kindness by Mrs Limont, whose
only son was practising as a surgeon in England. Even
in her isolated state, Mrs Barclay had selected Mr Limont,
as a person to whose care she could consign Randal with
the utmost confidence. He had long been her father's
factor, and was distinguished, not only for great practical
sagacity, but for the strictest piety — with a degree of native
sensibility, which derived additional force from the homeli-

" * For, as he spoke, a big round drop

Fell bounding on his ample sleeve —
A witness •which he could not stop,

A witness which all hearts believe I"

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

51

ness of his language and manners, Mrs Limont, too, from
the suavity and benevolence of her disposition, appearec
likely to unite with her hushand in doing everything to
promote the interest and happiness of her charge ; and in
this, as the sequel will shew, Mrs Barclay's parental instinc
did not deceive her.

It may be easily imagined that, to the mind of a boy
such as Randal, naturally sensitive, the striking contrast,
in conversation and manners, between the inmates of his
late and his present home would be rather irksome for
some time. But the unceasing assiduities of his kinc
friends tended gradually to reconcile him; and he soon
began to regard them with almost filial respect. Mr and
Mrs Limont, on their part, exaggerated every good quality
he had ; and looked upon him as the best substitute that
could have been provided for their absent son. One day,
Mrs Limont remarked —

" Hoo much ye put me in mind, laddie, o' oor Willie ! Ye
look sae like him, an* ye hae a' the ways that he had when
he was aboot the same age."

" Na, na, guidwife !" said Mr Limont — " he's far bonnier,
and far quieter, and he has far better abilities. Do ye think
that AVillie could hae brought hame sae muckle o' Dr
Strang's discourse as llandal did last Sabbath ?"

" 'Deed, James," replied the worthy Mrs Limont, " I canna
say that ye're that far wrang."

But here it may be as well, in order to illustrate the
species of sensibility peculiar to Mr Limont, to detail a
scene at family worship, which we transcribe from a
memorandum by llandal.

Mr LIMONT — (reading the concluding verse of the 5th
chapter of 1st Peter) — "Greet ye one another with a kiss
of charity."

Mrs LIMONT. — Dear me, James ! they maun hae been unco
fond o' kissing lang syne.

Mr LIMONT. — Wheesht, Jean ! It was an ordinary form of
salutation in the East — Randal will tell you that ; just like
our practice of shaking hands. But, though it hadna been
a mere civility — and, nae doot, the early Christians
wadna neglect ony civility that was innocent in itsel —
we may weel suppose that their feelings were very different
frae oors ; for, oh ! when we consider what a thin circle
o worshippers first gathered under the shadows o' the
Cross, what a pleasure it wad be, to them in particular,
to worship God in company — the throbbings o' the regenerate
speerit having to strive wi' enemies frae withoot and frae
within, Avhat wi' the persecutions o' the ungodly, and the
rebellion o' the corrupt wull in their own breasts : — if we
wad only tak a thought o' a' this, need we wonder that
they were drawn thegither wi' a sympathy that was mair
extraordinar than the stern power o' Elias or the Baptist,
and that may even seem extravagance to the like o' us !
Hoo different is the warld noo-a-days ! The strongest
professions o' folk that should be our best freends, are
owre seldom coloured frae the heart ; they often remind me
o' the red on the portrait o' ane o' my auld acquaintances,
that was taken when he was a corpse. The expression
o' life is no there — natur winna be mocked.

Mrs LIMONT. — James ! James ! ye've been owre lang !
ye've fairly set Lizzie asleep ; this, as ye ken, has been oor
washing-day, and the lassie, puir thing, canna keep her e'D
open.

Mr LIMONT. — O Jean, is it in this way that ye Lear the
word, and the thoughts that it suggests ? Lizzie ! Lizzie !
(Here the servant girl opens her eyes, and fixes them,
as if under some irresistible fascination, on Mr Limont.)
Lizzie ! let me remind ye o' what ane o' the auld divines
has said — "There is no sleep in Hell!" Think mair, my
woman, and sleep less.

Passing over the intermediate period between Randal's
twelfth and eighteenth years — in the course of which he

the most important consequences upon his future life

One afternoon, in April 1779, an elderly gentleman, who
had just returned to Scotland after acquiring an immense
fortune in the West Indies, called upon Mr Limont, for the
purpose of consulting him with regard to the purchase of a
property in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, which was
ottered for sale. His name was Ogilvie, and he and Mr
Limont had been at the same school. His wife, too, who
accompanied him, had been well known in her youth to
Mrs Limont. When they were engaged in conversation,
Randal entered the room, and both Mr and Mrs Ogilvie—
to whom Mrs Limont introduced him, with encomiums so
profuse and so inordinate as to bring the blood into his
cheeks — were struck with his manners and appearance,
I and invited him, and Mr and Mrs Limont, to spend the
following evening at their lodgings.

llandal, as already mentioned, was remarkable for acute-
ness of feeling. But this quality was united with a power-
ful mind, which his seclusion from the world, and his
habitual application to abstract pursuits, had rendered
perfectly unprejudiced ; and " though," in the words of
Shenstone, " his ordinary conversation was, perhaps, rather
too pregnant with sentiment — the usual fault of rigid students
— this awkwardness (so to call it) might be compared to the
stiffness of a fine piece of brocade, which, indeed, constitutes
and is inseparable from its value." Such, at this period,
was the subject of these sketches.

A circumstance which he had not anticipated, detained
him the following evening beyond the usual hour of tea :
and, as he pursued his way down the Pleasance to St John
Street, where Mr and Mrs Ogilvie lodged, the moonbeams
were falling gently upon the green slopes of Arthur's Seat
and Salisbury "Crags. Here I must pause. Randal Barclay,
I grieve when I think of thee ! Little didst thou then
suspect that, like the shepherd in Virgil, thou wouldst find
Love to be " an inhabitant of the rocks." But thou hast
long been clad with " a wedding garment," stainless and
imperishable, among those " who have borne the yoke in
their youth."

When Randal entered Mr Ogilvie's apartment, the candles
were not yet lit ; and, after the customary salutations had
passed, he was about to seat himself, when Mrs Ogilvie
exclaimed —

" Let me introduce you to my daughter, Mr Barclay.
Eliza, my dear, this is the young gentleman we were speak-
ing of."

Randal turned hastily round, and saw a face which he
was destined never to forget. Eliza Ogilvie, the only child
of her parents, was now fifteen, and strikingly beautiful.
She had been educated at a boarding school in Devonshire,
to which she was sent at the age of seven, and had rejoined
Mr and Mrs Ogilvie only six months previous to this
period, upon their arrival in England. In the general cast
of her features, Randal thought she strongly resembled the
picture of Caravagio's Mary at the Intombment. Her
long, dark-brown hair fell in bright curls down each side
of her face ; her forehead was broad and high, and of
the purest white ; and her eyes of a deep violet blue, with
that sort of serene expression which is generally considered
the symbol of profound feeling ; and, had it not been for a
sort of airy gracefulness in her movements, and an occasional
play of humour about her lips, she might have appeared too
grave for her age. Her mind, too, was not only power-
ful, but highly cultivated ; and the elegant simplicity of
her manners formed as strong a contrast to those of her
parents, as Randal's to those of Mr and Mrs Limont.

But here it is proper to state, that Mrs Ogilvie's pre-
tensions were very different from those of her homely friend.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

In a word, her character was thoroughly artificial ; and
her only redeeming quality, was a sort of instinctive bene-
volence, applying to cases where she had no prejudice or
object to sacrifice. With the view of creating an im-
pression that Eliza's talents were directly inherited from
her, she had lately begun to assume credit for superior
acquirements, though she had little more to support her
than an imperfect recollection of some old novels, which
she had read during her voyage to the West Indies ; and
this ambition even stimulated her to such an excess, that no
subject, however remote from her apprehension, could be
introduced, with which she would not affect familiarity, by
appearing profoundly attentive, and nodding or smiling signi-
ficantly. Vanity, in fact, was the main principle of her
actions. But it had worse effects than the absurdities in
which it involved her. It was too powerful for the better
part of her nature ; and she often evinced no hesitation in
violating consistency, and common regard to the feelings of
others, for the mere purpose of indulging the most fantastic
and abrupt caprices. No one, too, could be more expert
in the application of

" The artful injury, whose venom'd dart
Scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the heart ;
The guarded praise, which kills, and yet, when told,
The listener wonders you could think it cold."

She never had been what could be termed a beautiful
woman, as none of her features, taken separately, were good,
and their contour was small and babyish ; but she had a
great deal of colour, which rendered their general effect
pleasing, particularly in her younger years. When she was
acting in one of the humblest capacities, her smart pretti-
ness had engaged the attention of an officer's lady, who had
her instructed to act as a nursery-maid, and took her to
Jamaica, where circumstances having introduced her to the
notice of Mr Ogilvie, she was married to him shortly after-
wards. Mr Ogilvie, though endowed with strong common
sense, was yet remarkable for great simplicity of character ;
and, after a union of sixteen years, still remained an utter
stranger, not only to the obvious defects, but to the subtle
qualities of his wife, and might, in fact, be denominated the
passive instrument of her will. He even considered her
extremely ingenuous ; for, like people who are deficient in
real energy of mind, she was apt to rush perpetually into
extremes—

" So over violent or over civil,

That every one with her was god or devil ;"

and he used to say, " My wife always speaks out."

Let us now return to the company ; supposing the convers-
ation to have gone on for some time, and Eliza and Randal
to have recognised in each other a decided congeniality
of taste. They had been speaking of Milton, and the
former had become extremely animated. " How natural it
was," said she, " for Eve to ask Adam, why the moon and
the stars shone at night —

'When sleep had shut all eyes!'

and what a beautiful description he gives of their influence
on the earth ! But there is a degree of sadness in the
passage ; for, at that time, Adam had no idea of a purpose
which this light would afterwards serve — that it would be
the most soothing and agreeable to the sick and the discon-
solate." Randal gazed at her a moment in silence, and was
about to reply, when Mrs Limont, who had been for some
time listening to the young people, exclaimed —

" The moon's a fine thing for ripening the corn in nar'st !"

" And usefu' to the husbandmen in bringing it hame,

when the season's late," rejoined the worthy Mr Limont.

" Homer," said Randal to Eliza, " appears to be the only

poet who has noticed that the stars in the immediate vicinity

of the moon are peculiarly bright ; and it is strange that this

fine instance of poetical minuteness has been completely

glossed over by Mr Pope in his translation : —

' Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole.

This was pointed out to me a few days ago, and I was quite
struck with it."

'I have often heard it," said Mrs Ogilvie, to Randal's great
surprise. "• Oh, how fond I am of reading ! When I was
on my voyage to India, I never wearied of poring over ' Gil
Bias;' my mind was so for ward, to be so young a thing, just
like our Eliza's there. Ay ! ay !" Here she turned up her
eyes, fixed them again on the ground, sighed, shook her
head very sentimentally, and then looked at Randal, to see
the effect of her speech.

" Hech me, James !" said Mrs Limont, giving a most
audible yawn — " it's getting late. Do ye no think it's time
we were gaun?"

" I'm quite ready, Jean," replied Mr Limont. " Ye
ken I'm a freend to early hoors."

" But you must take a glass of wine," said Mrs Ogilvie,
rising and going to a closet. " I cannot allow you to gc
without that. I am sure it will do you all good." And she
handed wine round, with such a profusion of bows -and
smiles, that Randal scarcely knew where to look. He had
heard nothing of her history; but he felt assured, from the
evident importance which she attached to a civility so com-
mon in the house of his father, that she could not have
been brought up as a lady. On his departure, however, he
received so many pressing invitations to visit them often,
that he forgot defects, in the prospect of a continued
acquaintance with Eliza.

While they were proceeding homewards, Mrs Limont
remarked — 'f Yon Eliza's a bonny, sensible, feelin cratur —
is she no, Randal ? But, wae's me ! what a tiresome body
her mother is ! She's aye trying to speak sae fine upon
things that are no worth the noticin, that I canna be
fashed wi' her. She's weel up in the world noo ; but
she'll ne'er be like a leddy. The little sense she has, is just
destroyed wi' conceit — turnin up her een and shakin her
head, as if she were gaun to fa' into a dwam. He's a quiet
man, Mr Ogilvie, and I wonder he doesna reprove her,
when he sees her makin sic a fule o' hersel."

Randal, however, was prevented, by particular reasons,
from making any reply ; and they proceeded, therefore, in
silence, interrupted only by some remarks from Mr Limont
on the folly of going to the West Indies to amass a fortune,
as so few enjoyed the fruit of their labours on their return.

In the course of a few months after the period at which
he has been introduced, Mr Ogilvie purchased a beautiful
villa near Collinton, to which Randal was in the habit of
going two or three times a-week ; and, amid the rows of
stately elms or across the romantic hills in the vicinity,
Eliza was his constant companion. About this time, one
of Mr Limont's old friends requested that he would take
charge of his son (Mr Hamilton, the gentleman mentioned
at the outset) during his apprenticeship as a writer to
the signet. He was nearly of the same age as Randal,
and must have been a great acquisition to him, as he
possessed talent, information, and sensibility ; and as
Randal was also studying law, with the view of passing as
an advocate.

Four years passed, and we find Randal still a visiter at
Elmfield. Here our readers may, perhaps, inquire how
this intercourse was not interrupted by so ambitious a
woman as Mrs Ogilvie. Had respect for worth or talent
overcome her selfish aspirations ? — was she liberal enough
to trust to the probable effect of these qualities in rais-
ing Randal to opulence? — or was his income, along with
what Mr Ogilvie could contribute, considered sufficient ?
No j she had a very different reason. Randal was next
heir of entail to the estate of Westwood, as Lady Mus-
grave was now childless, having, during the first year
of Randal's acquaintance with the Ogilvies, lost both

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

a son and a daughter. Besides, Mrs Ogilvie felt a pleasure
in Randal's society ; more particularly as she had few
visitors, and none either intelligent or genteel ; and as she
conceived that she benefited by his aid in attempting to
impress her daughter with respect for her literary claims ;
for we cannot deny that Randal had one defect, naturally
enough arising from the enthusiasm of his feelings towards
Eliza. It was this : he never contradicted Mrs Ogilvie, and
enriched the tritest remark she made, by such illustrations
that it actually assumed an air of originality and import-
ance. As for Mr Ogilvie, he was really attached to Randal,
and continued quite inattentive to the inevitable conse-
quences of such a constant association between the young
people ; and if the thought that they were in love with each
other ever did cross his mind — " Eliza," he would probably
say to himself, <c will have a large fortune, and Westwood
will be an excellent addition to it."

We now come to a sad crisis in Randal's life. Two
events, of the utmost importance to him, happened on
the same day, the 2d of June 1783. In the morning,
he received intelligence that his aunt had given birth
to a son ; and, some hours afterwards, he had to go
through his examination as an advocate, in which he
acquitted himself most creditably. He had never contem-
plated, with much interest, the probability of his succession
to Westwood ; as he had not only his profession to trust
to, but the four thousand pounds which he inherited from
his mother, with the interest -which had accumulated upon
it since her death ; and he had, therefore, heard of the
former occurrence with little or no emotion. But, in the
evening, when he went out to Elmfield, and, in the course
of conversation, casually mentioned the intelligence he had
received in the morning, we may easily imagine his surprise
on observing an expression of blank disappointment, followed
by a peculiar sneer, pass over Mrs Ogilvie's countenance.
He thought, at "first, that he must have been deceived ; but,
shortly afterwards, her manner assumed a petulance and
coarse haughtiness which she had never wielded against
him on any former occasion. He, as usual, in the course
of the evening, proposed to take a walk with Eliza in the
adjoining wood ; and to this, too, for the first time, Mrs
Ogilvie interposed some trivial objections. — Here we may,
however, remark, that a Mr Richard Dippie the son of a
rich planter, with whom Mr Ogilvie had been acquainted
in the West Indies, had recently settled in Edinburgh ; and,
being frequently at Elmfield, shewed the most unequivocal
attentions to Miss Ogilvie. But he excited no jealousy in
Randal, as the whole tendencies of this man's nature, and
the style of his education, were directly opposed to hers.
He was, in fact, a mere boor — weak, shallow, contracted
and vulgar. — Eliza, not noticing the alteration in her
mother's deportment to Randal, and having sportively com-
bated all obstacles to the proposed walk, went for her bonnet
and returned to the room. Randal and she then took the
road to a favourite resort of theirs, near the river side. It
was a sort of semicircular opening in the wood, bounded
by a hedge of hawthorn and sweetbrier ; the borders of
the soft green turf were inlaid with a profusion of primroses
and wild hyacinths ; and the murmuring of the river below
was distinctly heard, without being seen. When they
arrived and had seated themselves on a rustic bench — •

" I feel unusually depressed to-night," said Randal.
" Will you allow me to ask you a question, Eliza ?"

"Certainly," replied she, with rather a startled expres-
sion.

" Eliza," lie continued, " you must be convinced that I
would not, intentionally, do anything to offend any of you.
In fact, I am chiefly indebted to your family for any
happiness I have had since my mother's death."

" What is the meaning of this exordium ?" exclaimed
Eliza. " You might ha-ve thought that all this would be

taken for granted — there is no one whom we esteem more
than you."

" I am happy indeed to hear you say so," replied Randal ;
" and perhaps I may have allowed some fantastic misap-
prehension to disturb my mind. But I have always acted
openly towards you, and I cannot conceal that there was a
coldness in your mother's manner to me this evening, which
stung me tO) the heart. I may be doing her injustice ; I
hope I am." Here he raised his eyes, and fixed them
mildly on his fair companion.

" I am sure," replied she, turning slightly pale-—" I am
sure that there is no change in my mother's feelings, as
there can be no reason for any. Do not allow such an idea
to discompose you. If you notice her when we return to
the house, you will see she is the same to you as ever."

" Since you have not observed what I alluded to," rejoined
Randal, " I must certainly be under some delusion ; but
this I know, that, were any alienation to take place
between us, nothing could console me, much less compen-
sate me."

" I would regret such a result," said Eliza, f< very much
— perhaps as much as yourself. But it is impious to say
that there is any species of calamity for which a remedy
cannot be found. Do you recollect that fine anecdote in
' The Tatler,' of a gentleman who, on seeing a young lady,
to whom he was engaged, fall over a cliff, exclaimed,
' It is not in the power of Heaven to relieve me ;' and,
when he had scarcely uttered the words, au-oke? I have
often thought of this, Randal." Here, raising her eyes,
with an attempt at a smile, she met his. Hitherto, she had
concealed the emotions that were busy at her heart ;
but the mournful and subdued enthusiasm of his glance
overcame her so much that she was seized with a violent
bleeding at the nose, which did not subside for some
minutes. Randal was much alarmed, and pressed her
instantly to return to the house. They had only proceeded
a few paces when she suddenly said —

" A circumstance to-night reminds me of my old maid,
Nina, who accompanied me from the West Indies. The
blacks, you know, are strangely superstitious ; and she
always maintained that the number three was ominous.
Look, Randal," she continued, in a faint tone of voice,
raising the end of a white silk scarf; when, to his horror,
he perceived three distinct drops of blood on its snowy
surface ; and, from that moment, notwithstanding all his
efforts to revive her spirits, she continued sad and abstracted.
This was the last time that ever Randal Barclay walked with
Eliza Ogilvie.

We may well suppose that the conversation we have
detailed, rendered Eliza an anxious and vigilant observer
of her mother that evening ; and, even at the first, she did
detect a sort of coldness in her air to Randal. Still, how.
ever, Mrs Ogilvie spoke to him with apparent frankness,
and dilated upon her own sensibility and her singular
skill in managing a household. But there were two things
which attracted the attention both of Eliza and Randal,
shortly before the latter took his leave. The one was,
that Mrs Ogilvie launched into a prolix and most extra-
vagant encomium on Mr Richard Dippie ; the Bother
that, in alluding to Randal's passing, she said, sarcastically,
" I'm thinking we shan't see so much of you now, Mr
Barclay, as professional matters will be taking up all your
time."

Randal took no notice of the last remark ; but it con-
firmed him in the suspicions he had expressed to Eliza ;
and in her eyes, which frequently met his, he read no
reassuring glance. He lingered, however, to the last mo-
ment, unwilling to go, as he had a presentiment that here
be would no longer be a welcome visiter. The next day,
he called again at Elmfield, and saw Mrs Ogilvie ; but was
told that Eliza could not leave her room. During thas

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

interview, Mrs Ogilvie preserved her usual appearance of
frankness — still there was a something that did not satisfy
Randal. But he only felt sorrow, even when she attempted
to ridicule a remark that he had made, and, laughing
most ungovernably at her own wit, looked for approbation
to her husband, who, at that moment, entering the room,
inquired where Eliza was? A guilty blush overspread
Mrs Ogilvie's face, and she hastily replied — >

" She is not well this morning."

" What ! — since breakfast!" rejoined Mr Ogilvie. "I never
saw her looking better. Girls who have nothing to do are
always fancying themselves ill."

" I dare say it is true," said his wife, with a hysterical
g ggle, glad that she had got something like a subterfuge
in her husband's concluding reflection. At the same time,
she had penetration enough to observe that Randal was by
no means satisfied with her conduct, and she could not
refrain from inflicting a mortification upon him. " Will
you be so good," said she, in that deprecating tone of voice
which she considered particularly beautiful, " as give my
compliments to Mr and Mrs Limont, and say that I will
be so happy if they will take their tea with us to-morrow
night ? Mr Richard Dippie is to be here, and I wish them
to see him — he is such a fine lad that I am getting fonder
of him every day. What a beautiful chariot he has got !"
Randal looked at her, expecting to be included in the
invitation ; but she merely said, she was sorry for putting
him to so much trouble, while her babyish features expressed
a sort of triumph which perfectly confounded him.

Here let us explain the reason why Mrs Ogilvie had
prevented her daughter from seeing Randal. It may be
told in a few words. When he called, she had taunted
Eliza with her partiality for him ; and, this being openly
avowed, she had declared (for she was a great pretender
to energy of character) " that she would go down stairs
and forbid him to enter the house again." But her spirit
had shrunk when she came into his presence, and she found
that her only resource for accomplishing her object, was
the artful species of attack which we have described.

Upon Randal's return, Mrs Limont was sruck by the
dejection, or rather the total prostration of spirits, which
his features indicated.

" What's the matter wi' ye, bairn ?" said she — ' ' ye appear
to be sair cast doon. Has onything happened to vex ye ?"

Randal simply replied, that he was fatigued with his walk.

" Nae ither wonder," rejoined she — " ye haena eaten as
niuckle the day as would hae served a sparrow. That
weary passing has dune ye nae guid. Let me bring ye a
glass o' wine." This she accordingly did.

Randal then delivered Mrs Ogilvie's message.

"Weel, if it's a fine day, I hae nae objections. What
time will suit you ?"

" I was not asked," replied Randal.

" No asked !" — cried Mrs Limont — who had long been
aware, from her own observation, of his strong attachment
to Eliza — " no asked ! I mind noo ye looked very disjaskit
last nicht when ye cam hame. Ye'd be telling Mrs
Ogilvie, nae doot, that yer aunt had got a son?"

Randal, rather startled, replied in the affirmative.

" I see it a' noo. Hech ! what a thing wardly pride is !

just to tell Bell Rippath a bit o' my mind. Her to tak
sic airs on hersel ! I mind her a dirty-faced lassie, rinnin
bare-headed and bare-fitted abootPennycuick. Her, indeed —
the wean o' auld Elshie Rippath, the carters' cobbler — to pit
sic an affront on you !"

Randal attempted in vain to pacify her ; but her honest
wrath admitted of no mitigation, until her husband, in his
own peculiarly mild and steady manner, expressed a con-

viction that the omission must have been accidental. Still,
however, a strong impression that the important change in
Randal's expectations had been the cause of Mrs Ogilvie's
conduct, lingered on Mrs Limont's mind when she entered
Elmfield the succeeding evening. Mrs Ogilvie's reception
was particularly cordial ; but Mrs Limont's feelings may be
conceived when she merely inquired for Randal. There
was one circumstance, however, which did please her — that,
when Dippie, who was received with the most florid expres-
sions of kindness by Mrs Ogilvie, and accosted by the
familiar name of " Richard," entered the room, Eliza, after
coldly replying to his inquiries, rose from her chair, near
which he had placed his own, and seated herself on the
sofa between Mrs Limont and her husband. Mrs Limont's
manner, during her short visit this evening, was very
different from its usual placidity. She listened with marked
indifference to all Mrs Ogilvie's attempts at sentimental
conversation and self-eulogies ; and her real warmth of
heart was only discoverable when Eliza became suddenly
unwell, and was obliged to leave the room. This last cir-
cumstance was occasioned by some rude allusion of Dippie
about Randal having been " cut out" of the Westwood
property.

lc But the bairn may dee," said Mrs Limont, again seating
herself after Miss Ogilvie's departure, and having recourse
to her snuff-box, as a sort of sedative — " an auld woman's
wean seldom lives ; and Lady Musgrave, to my certain
knowledge, was seven years the senior o' Maister Barclay's
mother, who wad hae been little mair than forty had
she been livin at this day. Puir, winsome thing ! — she dee'd
young ; and sair, sair maun hae been her heart to leave
her bairn to sic a cauld warld."

" I think." said Mr Limont, whose serenity was also
secretly disturbed by the rudeness of Dippie's allusion — " 1
think ye're richt, Jean ; and nae guid can ever come owre
Leddy Musgrave. If she didna excite auld Herbert against
his sister, she, at least, never made ony attempt to lessen
his resentment. I sometimes fancied that, if he had had
ony honest freend aboot him, matters might hae been made
up between him and the Barclays, before his death, as Miss
Mary was aye his favourite ; and I never can think o'
Leddy Musgrave wi' onything like patience, when I remem-
ber the desolate state of the puir young creature, as I
found him sitting beside the corpse o' his mother, wi' no a
relation in the house, though his aunt lived only five miles
off. They say, too, that Sir William has had twa or three
apoplectic strokes, and that his leddy is aye pinging. But
this I'm sure o' — that the loss o' the property has never cost
Randal a thought. He has two hundred a-year clear money,
and I'm far mistaen if he will not sune be at the top o' hia
profession. Mr Hamilton, who has sic a great connection
wi' merchants in Glasgow, is to gie him a' his cases, which
will be a business o' itsel."

" We think very little of two hundred a-year in Jamaica,"
said Mrs Ogilvie, with a satirical expression of counte-
nance.

" Hech me !" rejoined Mrs Limont ; ' ' but what / would
hae thought o' siccan a sum lang syne, at Pennycuick !" And
it must be added that, to Mrs Limont's great satisfaction,
this allusion did not appear particularly agreeable to Mrs
Ogilvie. Here Mr Ogilvie, apprehensive that Mrs Limont
should dilate on this obnoxious subject in the presence of
Dippie, proposed that the gentlemen should take a walk in
the garden. Mrs Ogilvie was not, however, allowed to
escape so easily; for, no sooner had the door closed, than Mrs
Limont began to detail a conversation which she had had,
some nights before, with, an old acquaintance of the ci-devant
Bell Ridpath.

" What changes happen in folks' lives !" said Mrs Limont,
commencing her attack.

"Oh, yes/' responded her companion, in a sentimental tone

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

55

of voice — " that is what I often observe to our Eliza. No one,
as / say, can reckon on what is to happen the next mornin."

"And Avhat enemies folk hae, that they dinna ken o' !"
continued Mrs Limont. " An auld leddy, frae Pennycuick,
ca'd on me the ither day ; and ye wadna believe what an
ill-will she has to ye, and hoo she went on aboot ye."

" She must be a low person ; and I wish to hear nothing
anent her/' cried Mrs Ogilvie, hastily.

" She's no exactly what ye may ca' that," rejoined the
other ; " for she's come frae dacent folk. Her faither was
ance a guid stock-farmer, no far frae the Toun ; and, gang
where ye'd like, ye wadna hae seen a brawer lass than Babbie
Brodie. She was just extraordinar. But, oh, she's awfu
wicked at onybody that slights her in her auld days. And
only think," continued she, lowering her voice to a confi-
dential tone, and drawing her chair nearer Mrs Ogilvie's —
" only think what she said — ' They tell me,' quo' she, < that
Mrs Ogilvie keeps her heed unco high, and tries to speak
fine, noo that she has an auld man wha got a' his siller —
Losh preserve us ! — wi' makin coffins for the puir craturs
in Kingston that dee'd o' the yellow fever, when there was
an unco scarcity o' wrights.'— ' Dear me,' said I, ' Miss
Babby, onything for the honest penny.' — ' Ay,' said she,
' I wad be the last to cast up onybody's forbears, if folk
took nae airs on themsels. But, when they do, merely
because they've got siller withoot ony merit o' their ain, I
canna hae ony patience wi' them. To think o' Bell
Rippalh turning up her nose at a 'sponsible man's doc liter,
like mysel ! — a lassie that used to be glad to get an auld
goun frae me, at an orra time, to gang dacent-like to the
kirk ! Do ye no mind that auld Elshie was fit for naething
but to cobble herds' and cottars' shoon; for naither my
faither nor ony o' the farmers wad lippen theirs to him, the
donnert, daidlin body ?' "

" I wish to hear no more of this," said Mrs Ogilvie, fum-
ing with rage.

" Ay, but I haena come to the warst o't," continued the
persevering Mrs Limont. " ' She maun hae been unco fond
o' siller,' quo' Babby, ' an* sweethearts maun hae been
scarce, when she took the like o' Ogilvie, (for ma pairt, I
dinna believe she ever had anither offer,) wi' his ggem leg
and his glee'd een.' "

" I really cannot submit any longer to listen to the
impertinence of this Miss Babby," exclaimed Mrs Ogilvie ;
and then, for she had observed Mrs Limont's dislike to
Dippie, and had guessed the cause which increased it, she
remarked — " What a fine lad Mr Dippie is ! He is likely to
be every day a greater favourite with us all. What a
fortune he has ! How much do you think ?"

" Indeed, I neither ken nor care," responded her com-
panion.

" One hundred and twenty thousand pounds."

" Weel, weel — that's most extraordinar. Babby tellt me
that ane o' the ploomen at Pennycuick kenned his grand-
faither, wha was just bedral at Currie, and that his faither
was a mischievous callant, wha, in ane o' his cantrams, brak
the bell when his faither was oot o' the way, and ran off
to sea, for fear o' a guid threshing. Hoo he gat to Jamaica,
Babby couldna tell. But, she says, it was weel kent that
he made his money by marrying nae less than three planters'
widows, ill-faured women ; and, as for the lad, he hasna
a word to thraw at a dog, sae different frae oor Mr Barclay."

Here Mrs Ogilvie displayed that peculiar sneer which
was her usual diplomacy when she found herself discom-
fited; and it would probably have provoked a fresh retort from
Mrs Limont, had the gentlemen not re-entered the room.

' ' And, O sirs," as Mrs Limont said, when afterwards
recounting this conversation, "withwhata smooth, composed
countenance the cratur Bell received them, when her heart
was flaming wi' passion ! I couldua but think hoo little
natur there is aboot her."

Before the party dispersed, Miss Ogilvie came into the
parlour ; and, while Mrs Ogilvie was engaged in producing
wine and cake, said to Mrs Limont, in a low voice—

" Randal was not well the night before last. I hope he
is better now."

<•• He'll be happy to hear that you are better," whispered
Mrs Limont ; " but, puir fellow, he is very, very low."

Randal called a few days afterwards, that he might not
appear offended, and unwilling to abandon all hope of
being permitted to visit the family. To his great delight,
Mrs Ogilvie received him with apparently more than usual
kindness. But Eliza, who was also in the room, appeared
to be much embarrassed. Her voice faltered as she returned
his salutation, and he observed that she was much paler
than usual. Let us explain the secret at once : — Dippie
had, that morning, written to Eliza, making a proposal of
marriage ; and her mother had been strenuously, but fruit,
lessly urging her to accept of it. Upon her daughter's
decided rejection, Mrs Ogilvie, whose kindness, either as a
wife or as a mother, depended emphatically upon the con-
dition of unqualified subservience to all her caprices, taunt
ingly observed —

" You're refusing a good offer for the sake of a man who
has never asked you to be his wife."

" He has not, mamma. But his motives in this, as in
every other respect, are pure and just. I have no doubt
that the want of a profession has prevented him from
making a formal disclosure. But there he is."

And, to her astonishment, her mother received him with
the utmost cordiality. But her heart was unchanged ; and
her assumed manner was partly founded on her wish to
create an unfavourable contrast, in the mind of her daughter,
between her frankness and Randal's reserve — for which she
knew she had given him sufficient reason — and partly on an
inclination to conceal from him her share in a letter which
she had determined that Mr Ogilvie should write him, for-
bidding any repetition of his visits. Soon, however, after
his entrance, she was called out of the room ; and Randal
could no longer refrain from acknowledging his feelings to
Eliza, and from asking her permission to open the subject
to her father. She at once admitted that the regard was
mutual, and complied with his request, not without express-
ing an apprehension that the opposition of her mother
might prove successful ; but declaring that, if it was, she
never would become the wife of another. Mrs Ogilvie's
step was soon heard on the stairs, and Randal, (from some
feeling of melancholy prescience,) having hastily begged
for a lock of her hair, she instantly cut off one of the long
beautiful curls which flowed down her temples ; and he had
only time to secret it when the door opened. He then
rose and took his leave. Immediately on his return home,
he wrote to Mr Ogilvie, avowing the attachment between
himself and Eliza, detailing his circumstances and pro-
spects, expressing a hope that he should soon succeed, in
his profession, and entreating that, in the meantime, he
might be permitted to enter into an engagement with her.
To this note, Mr Ogilvie returned a cold and final refusal ; at
the same time stating that he and his wife and daughter
were to set off next morning for the south of England.

From this time, Randal lost all interest in the usual
occupations of life ; seldom stirring from the house, except
late in the evening, and frequently returning wet with dew
or rain, to the great terror of Mrs Limont. It was impos-
sible for him to conceal what had happened from her and
her worthy husband ; and he had, at least, the comfort of
real sympathy.

" Haud up yer head, my bairn," she exclaimed, on one
occasion. " There's as guid fish in the sea as ever cam oot
o't • and hae but patience— the lassie will be her ain mistress
some time or ither; and that upsettin body, her mother,
will hae but little power owre her when the auld mans

56

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

dead. Ye may be sure, Randal, they maun hae had fecht '
aneucli wi' her, since they've had to tak her to the south,
and haena returned yet, though this is November, and she
has been there since the beginnin o' July. Puir, bonny
lassie ! I'm thinkin she pines as muckle for the want o'
you as ye hae dune for her."

In the course of this month, Randal received intelligence
of the death of his infant cousin, at which event Mrs
Limont could not conceal her satisfaction ; and, without
•nentioning her intention to Randal, wrote to Mrs Ogilvie,
apprising her of what had happened.

•'The puir lad," said she, after she had dispatched the
tetter, " will soon be himsel again, as it's a' the want o'
that weary estate that's brought him to this pass."

if I really wish that the heart o' that woman may be
turned," observed Mr Limont. " It's an awfu' thing to see
a mind sae gentle an' sae powerfu' as Randal's, owretaken
wi' untimeous decay. Do ye no notice hoo weak his voice
is noo, Jean ? and hoo his lips tremble and the tears come
into his een, whenever we speak a kind word to him ? My
vera soul's wae for him. I hae often thought o' a saying o'
Dr Strang, when he was lecturing on the Flood — 'The
raven/ quo' he, ' metaphorically speaking, finds itsel at
hame in this warld ; but the dove canna get a spot where
to rest its wing.' My fear is, Jean, that it'll no be lang
before I'll hae to lay his head in the grave."

Randal became every day weaker ; and a severe cold
which he had caught having settled on his lungs, medical aid
was called in. But, one morning about the latter part of Feb-
ruary, he requested that Mrs Limont would sit down by
his bedside ; and he then, in as gentle a manner as possible,
told her that, though he might linger for a month or two,
he could not ultimately recover, expressing, at the same
time, perfect resignation to his fate. He also stated
that he had executed a will, bequeathing to her all he
possessed ; and advised her to get her own son home, that
she might have the comfort of his society in her old age
We shall not attempt to describe Mrs Limont's grief. From
the sketches we have given of her character, it may easily
be conceived ; and her only conversation, when alone with
her husband, consisted of profound lamentations for Randal,
and execrations against Mrs Ogilvie.

In the course of about three weeks after this disclosure
he was removed, by short stages, to the small Border town
which was mentioned at the outset, as it was much recom-
mended for the purity of its air. After the immediate fatigue
of his journey was overcome, he felt somewhat stronger, anc
was even able, on two or three occasions, to go, accompanied
by his friend, Mr Hamilton, to the picturesque church-
yard, which lies at a little distance from the town. He hae
never seen it before ; and he was so struck with the secludec
beauty of the situation, that he frequently enjoined hi
friend to see him buried in the very spot which we have
described, and to cause a simple stone to be erected, bearing
nothing but his name, the date of his death, his age
and the short passage from Scripture. It was only abou
a week, however, after the change, that all his symptoms
became alarmingly worse — so much so, that Mr Hamilton
considered it indispensable to send for Mr and Mrs Limont
On the 2d of April, they arrived ; and the anguish, par
ticularly of the latter, when she saw him rapidly sinking, was
quite indescribable.

" My poor bairn," she exclaimed, her old face streaming
with tears, " THEY HAVE KILLED YE AT LAST ; but they'l
repent it."

« O sirs," said Mr Limont, " ye've got but a puir rewarc
for a' yer confidence ; you've been nestling under the wing
of a vulture''

" Do not distress yourselves, my dear friends," saic
Randal, in a faint tone. " How thankful I am that I'v<
lived to see you once more ! This will be the last thrill o

worldly enjoyment, except perhaps one, that I shall feel
before I die. Be sure, Mrs Limont, to get your son home-
practice will be of comparatively small consequence to him
now." Then, after a pause, he continued, in a still lower
voice — "Mrs Limont, I wish to speak a few words with you
alone."

Mr Limont and Mr Hamilton then left the room ; and
Randal, raising his head a little from the pillow, stretched
out his cold, moist hand to Mrs Limont, which she grasped
convulsively in her own.

" Mrs Limont," he said, " have you heard anything of
Eliza since I left Edinburgh ?" Here he observed that the
hand of Mrs Limont trembled ; and, making a sudden
movement, exclaimed — " Yes, you have. Tell me all — I am
strong enough to bear it."

The truth was, that the intelligence conveyed in Mrs
Limont's letter to Mrs Ogilvie hastened the family's return
to Edinburgh ; and, having discovered, casually, the real
situation of Randal, they had all called the very day Mr
Hamilton's letter had reached Mr Limont.

" I saw her," replied Mrs Limont, " yesterday. She
was very pale and thin ; and sair, sair distressed when
she heard ye were sae ill. Just when she was gaun oot,
she stopped for a moment ahint her faither and mother,
and spoke something that I couldna weel mak oot, as
she was amaist choked, aboot a primrose ye had gien
her langsyne, and she bid me tell ye she wad keep her
promise."

A sudden radiance lit up the dimmed, though still fine
intellectual eye of Randal, on hearing these words. " I
knew it would be so," he exclaimed, pressing Mrs Limont's
hand more firmly — " I knew it would be so ; so I have
I still had one more earthly enjoyment." After a short
interval, he again spoke — " I have one more request to
make," drawing from his breast a gold locket, containing
the curl of Eliza's hair. " See, my friend, that this is not
removed ; and tell Eliza what I desired to be buried with
me." Mrs Limont promised as articulately as she could,
and he soon afterwards fell into a sleep which lasted till
about ten at night.

When he awoke, he found Mr and Mrs Limont, and Mr
Hamilton, sitting by his bedside ; and, though life was
fast ebbing, the benignity of his nature still continued so
unimpaired, that, on hearing Mrs Limont cough, he begged
her to go to bed, adding that she had a husband and a
son to care for. But it may easily be thought that his
request was not complied with. — The difficulty of breathing
increased very rapidly ; and, about a quarter before eleven,
he was heard to murmur — " I neglected my mother's advice ;
but the penalty will soon be paid." Randal, then, in a
tone of voice scarcely audible, requested Mrs Limont to
come near.

" Death is at hand," said he — " would you be so kind a*
to close this eye ?" She placed her hands upon both ; but
he gently removed the right, and whispered, l< That one is
closed already* The difficulty of respiration soon became
greater and greater, and the only other words which he
spoke were —

" I bless God that I die in peace with Him and with
all." And, before midnight, his spirit had ascended to that
place where " they neither marry nor are given in mar-
riage, but are as the angels in Heaven."

* A similar incident is recorded of the Rev. Mr Wolff.

WILSON'S

, gFvafctttonarg, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SNOW STORM OF 1825.

OUR readers will recollect the dreadful snow storm that
occurred in the year 1825. Indeed, it is impossible that any
one who was above the years of childhood at the time, can
have forgot it, or can ever forget it. It was the most tre-
mendous with which this country has been visited for a'
century. For nearly six weeks, and in some places for a
much longer period, every road, excepting those in the im-
mediate vicinity of large towns, was blocked up, and rendered
impassable by either horse or foot ; and one consequence was,
that scores of travellers of all descriptions, were suddenly
arrested in their several places of temporary sojournment on
the road, and held in durance during the whole period of
the storm, without the possibility of communicating with
their friends, or, in the case of mercantile travellers, with
their employers.

It was a weary time, on the whole, to those who were thus
laid under embargo ; but not without its pleasures either ; for
each house thus situated, having perhaps a dozen strangers
in it, from and going to all parts of the kingdom, became a
distinct and independent little community, from which its
local exclusion from the busy world had shut out, also, for
the time at any rate, much of its cares and troubles — a phi-
losophic spirit soon prevailing, after the first day or two's
confinement, to make the most of what could not be helped.

The writer of this sheet happened to be one of nine who
were shut up in the way alluded to, in an inn in the south
of Scotland; and although, as already said, it was rath era weary
thing on the whole, yet was it not without its enjoyments.
Our ennui was often delightfully relieved by the diversity
of character as developed in our little community ; for we
had, if we may so speak, the salt, the pepper, and the
vinegar of human dispositions, sprinkled throughout the
party, which not only took from the cold insipidity of our
confinement, but gave to it a rich and pleasant relish.
Our host's cellar and larder happened to be well stored,
while the house was, in all other respects, an excellent one ;
so, what with the produce of the former, and the roaring fires
kept up by Jamie, the waiter, we had really nothing to com-
plain of on the score of creature comforts — and it is amazing
how far the possession of these will go to reconcile men to
otherwise very unpleasant situations. In this case, they were
enhanced by the dreary prospect from without — the howling
storm, the drifting snow, and the wide, dismal, monotonous
waste of dazzling white that lay all around us.

The consciousness of the comforts AVC enjoyed, in short,
put us all in good humour with one another ; while a fellow-
ship in misfortune, and a community of feeling as well as
of persons, introduced a degree of friendliness and intimacy,
to which few other circumstances, perhaps, would have given
rise. We had our small round of standard jokes peculiar
to our situation, which few else could have understood, and
fewer still have appreciated, though they did understand
them. We had, too, a small round of harmless tricks, which
we regularly played off every day on some one or other of
the corps. But, notwithstanding all this — the larder, the
cellar, the fire, the jokes, and the tricks — time did occasionally
hang rather heavily upon our hands, especially in the even-
112. VOL. III.

ings. To lessen this weight, we latterly fell upon the con-
trivance of telling stories, one or two of us each night, by
turns. The idea is a borrowed one, as the reader will at
once perceive, but we humbly think not a pin the worse on
that account. There was no limitation, of course, as to sub-
ject. Each was allowed to tell what story he liked ; but it
was the general understanding that these stories should be
personal if possible — that is, that each should relate the
most remarkable circumstances in his own life. Those who
had nothing of the kind to communicate were, of course,
allowed to get off with anything else they chose to substitute.
The first to whose lot it fell to entertain us in this way, was
a fat, good-humoured, good-natured, little, hunch-backed
gentleman, with a short leg and a bright yellow waistcoat.
He was a mercantile traveller, and, if I recollect right, a
native of Newcastle.

When the little man was asked to open his budget,
" Why, gentlemen," said he, u I do not see that I can do
better than comply with the understood wish of the company,
by giving you a sketch of my own life, which you will find
to present, I think, as curious a race, or struggle, or what-
ever els.e you may choose to call it, between luck and misfor-
tune, as perhaps you have heard of: —

You must know, then, my friends, (went on the little
gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat,) that the indica-
tions of my future good fortune began to exhibit themselves
as early as they well could. I was born -with a caul upon
my head, gentlemen, which all of you know is an indubitable
token that the little personage to whom it belongs will be
singularly fortunate in life. Well, gentlemen, I was favoured,
as I have already said, with one of those desirable head-
pieces; and great was the joy the circumstance gave rise to
amongst the female friends and gossips who were assembled
on the occasion. The midwife said that everything I
should put my hand to would prosper, and that I would be,
to a certainty, at the very least, a general, a bishop, or a
judge ; the nurse to whom I was subsequently consigned,
on the same ground, dubbed me a duke, and would never
call me by any other title ; whilst my poor mother saw me
in perspective, sitting amongst the great ones of the earth
surrounded with power, wealth, and glory. Such were the
bright visions of my future prosperity, to which my caul
gave rise; and probably they might have been realized, had it
not been for an unlucky counteracting or thwarting power
that always stepped in, seemingly for no other purpose but
to disappoint my own hopes and those of my friends ; some
times baulking my expectations altogether, when on the point
of fruition — sometimes converting that to evil in me which
would assuredly have produced good to any other person. But
to proceed with my history. I grew up a fine, stout, well-made
child. Ay, you may laugh, gentlemen, (said the little man,
good-humouredly, seeing a tittergoroundat this personal allu-
sion, which so ill accorded with his present deformed appear-
ance,) but it was the case, I assure you, until I met with
the accidents that altered my shape to what you now see it.
Well, I repeat that I grew a fine, promising child, and, to
the inexpressible amazement and delight of my parents,
shewed symptoms of taking unusually early to my legs.

Nor were these symptoms unfaithful. I took to my

58

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

pins on my own account, before I was ten months old ; but,
unfortunately, my first walk was into a draw-well, where 1
would infallibly have been drowned, if it had not been tor a
large Newfoundland dog which my father kept, and which
was close by me at the time of the accident. The faithful
creature leapt in after me, and kept me afloat, until my
father came and extricated me. After this, I was never
trusted a moment out of sight ; and thus, instead ot this
precocious developement of my physical powers proving a
blessing to me, it proved a curse ; for it deprived me of all
liberty. As I grew up, however, this restraint became less
rigorous, and I was permitted to ramble in the garden ; and
one of my first feats, after obtaining this freedom, was, to
climb a high wall, to come at an uncommonly fine apple that
had long tempted me with its rosy cheeks, and I had just
succeeded in getting near enough to the prize to grasp it,
when, in making this effort, down I came ; and this leg, gen-
tlemen, (said the little man, holding out his deformed
limb,) was the consequence. I fell and broke my leg, just
as I was about to grasp the apple. Fatal type of all my sub-
sequent misfortunes !

I have now, gentlemen, (went on the little man,) to
account for the other deformity that disfigures me : viz. —
my hump-back. This befell me in the following manner.
Playing one day with a number of boys of about my own
age, which was then six or seven, a big fellow, of double the
size of any of us, came in amongst us, and began to plunder
us of our playthings ; and he was in the very act of robbing
me of a hoop, when another lad, still stronger and bigger,
who saw the attempted robbery, generously ran to my assist-
ance, and aimed a tremendous blow with a stick at my assail-
ant. The blow, however, missed him at whom it was aimed,
and took me exactly on the small of the back, which it
broke in two as if had been a pipe shank; and the conse-
quence was, as you see, gentlemen, (said the little man in the
bright yellow waistcoat, edging round, at the same time to
indicate his hump.)

"Well, then, gentlemen, (he went on,) up to my ninth
year, this was all the good fortune that my caul brought
me — that is, being first half-drowned, then breaking my
leg, and lastly my back. To compensate, however, in some
measure, for these mischances, I turned out an excellent
scholar ; and, especially, became a very expert Latinist —
a circumstance which my father, who had a great veneration
for the language, thought sufficient alone to make my for-
tune ; and it certainly procured me — that is, very nearly
procured me — in the meantime, some of the chief honours
of the school. I say very nearly — for I did not actually
obtain them ; but it was only by the merest accident in the
world that I did not. The misapprehension of a single
word deprived me of a prize which was about to be awarded
to me, and gave it to one of my competitors. This was
reckoned a very hard case ; but there was no help for it.

Still there was luck in the caul, gentlemen, (continued
the little man in the bright yellow waistcoat,) as you shall
hear. Going home from school one day, a distance of about
a mile and a half, I found a very handsome gold watch,
with valuable appendages, lying upon the road. I was at
first afraid to lift the glittering treasure, hardly believing it
possible that so rich and splendid a thing could be without
an owner ; but, gradually picking up courage, I seized on
the watch, hurried it into my pocket, and ran onwards like
a madman. I had not run far, however, when a man,
respectably dressed, but who seemed the worse of liquor,
or rather like one just recovering from a debauch, met me,
and, seizing me by the breast, fiercely asked me if I had
seen anything of a gold watch. I instantly confessed that
I had found such a thing ; and, trembling with apprehen-
sion, for the fellow continued to look furiously at me, pro-
duced the watch.

Very well," said he, taking it from n--e. " Now, you

little villain you, confess. You did not find the watch, but
stole it from me whilst I slept on the road-side."^

I protested that it was not so— that I found it as I had
said. To this protest the fellow replied by striking me a
violent blow on the side of the head, which stretched me on
the road ; where, after administering two or three parting
kicks to teach me honesty, as he said, he left me in a state
of insensibility. I was shortly afterwards picked up and
carried home ; but so severe had been the drubbing I got,
that I was obliged to keep my bed for three weeks after.
And this was all I gained by finding a gold watch. Had
any other person found it, they would have been allowed
to keep it, or, at the worst, have got a handsome reward
for giving it up ; but such things were not to be in any case
in which I should be concerned.

Still I say, gentlemen, (continued the little man m the
bright yellow waistcoat,) there was luck in the caul ; for,
soon after, a distant relation of my mother's, who had been
long in the West Indies, and had there realized a large for-
tune, having come to England on some business, paid us a
visit, and was so well pleased with the attention shewn
him, and with the society he got introduced to, that he
spent the whole subsequent period of his temporary resid-
ence in this country with us. During this time, he became
remarkably fond of me — so fond that he could never be
without me. I was obliged to accompany him in all his
walks, and even to sleep with him. In short, he became so
attached to me, that it was evident to every one that some
ood would come out of it ; for he was immensely rich, and
ad no family of his own, never having been married.
Indeed, that I would be the better for the old boy's love was
not matter of conjecture, for he frequently hinted it very
broadly. He would often take me on his knee, and, Avhile
fondling me, would say, in presence of my father and
mother — " Well, my little fellow, who knows but you may
ride in your carriage yet ? As odd things have happened."
Then, " Would you like to be a rich man, Bobby ?" he
would inquire, looking archly at me. " If.you continue as
good a boy as you arc just now, I'll undertake to promise
that you will." In short, before leaving us, our wealthy
friend, whose name was Jeremiah Hairsplitter, held out
certain hopes to my parents of my being handsomely pro-
vided for in his will. This so affected us all, that we wept
bitterly when the good old man left us to return to the
West Indies ; where, however, he told us, he now intended
remaining only a short time, having made up his mind
to come home and spend the remainder of his days
with us.

Well, gentlemen, (said the little hump-backed man in
the bright yellow waistcoat,) here was a very agreeable
prospect, you'll all allow ; and it was one in which there
appeared so much certainty, that it cost my father — who had
been led to believe he should get a handsome slice too —
many serious thoughts as to how Ave should dispose of the
money — how lay it out to the best advantage. My father,
who was a very pious man, determined, for one thing, to
build a church ; and, as to me and my fortune, he thought
the best tiling I could do, seeing, from my deformities, that
I was not very well adapted for undergoing the fatigues of
a professional life, was, Avhen I should become a little older,
to turn country gentleman; and with this idea he was
himself so well pleased, that he began, thinking it best to
take time by the forelock, to look around for a suitable seat
for me when I should come of age and be ready to act on
my own account ; and he fortunately succeeded in finding
one that seemed a very eligible investment. It was a very
handsome country-house, about the distance of three miles
from where we lived, and to which there was attached an
estate of 1000 acres of land, all in a high state of cultiva-
tion. The upset price of the whole — for the property was
at that moment on sale — was £20,000 • a dead bargain, as

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

59

the lawyer who had the management of the property
assured us. It was worth at least double the money, he
said ; and in this, Mr Longshanks, the land-measurer, whom
my father also consulted on the subject, perfectly agreed ;
but was good enough to give my father a quiet hint to hold
off a bit, and, as the proprietor was in great distress for
money, he might probably get the estate for £18,000, or
something, at any rate, considerably below the price named.
Grateful for this hint, my father invited Mr Longshanks to
dine with him, and gave him a bottle of his best wine.
Now, gentlemen, please to observe (said the little hunch-
backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat) that
while we were thus treating about an estate worth £20,000,
we had not a sixpence wherewith to buy it ; so that Mr
Longshanks' hint about holling off was rather a superfluous
one. But then our prospects were good — nay, certain; there
was, therefore, no harm — nay, it was proper and prudent
to anticipate matters a little in the way we did ; so that we
might at once have the advantage of sufficient time to do
things deliberately, and be prepared to make a good use of
our fortune the moment we got possession of it.

That our prospects were excellent, I think you will all
allow, gentlemen, when you take into account what I have
already told regarding our worthy relative ; but that they
really were so, you will still more readily admit, when I
tell you that we received many letters from Mr Hairsplitter
after his arrival in Jamaica, (for he now opened a regular
correspondence with us,) in all of which he continued not
only to keep our hopes alive, as to the destination of his'
wealth, but to increase them ; so that I — for the bulk of j
his fortune, there was no doubt, was intended for me — was
already looked upon as a singularly lucky young dog ; and
of this opinion, in the most unqualified sense, and in a most
especial manner, was my mother, my nurse, and the lady
who ushered me into the world — all of whom exultingly-
referred to my caul, and to their own oft-expressed senti-
ments regarding the luck that was to befall me.

But, to return to my story. After a lapse of about two
or three years, during which, as I have said, we received
many letters from our worthy relative, one came, in which
he informed us that it was the last we should have from
him from Jamaica, as he had wound up all his affairs, and
was about to leave the island, to return home and spend
the remainder of his days with us, or in our immediate
neighbourhood.

Well, gentlemen, you see matters were gradually ap-
proaching to a very delightful crisis ; and we, as you may
believe, saw it with no small satisfaction. We indulged in.
the most delicious dreams ; indeed, our whole life was now
one continued reverie of the most soothing and balmy kind.
From this dreamy state, however, we were very soon awak-
ened by the following paragraph in a newspaper, which my
father accidentally stumbled on one morning as we were at
breakfast. It was headed " Dreadful Shipwreck," and went
on thus : — " It is with feelings of the most sincere regret
we inform our readers, that the Isabella, from Jamaica to
London, has foundered at sea, and every one on board
perished, together with the whole of a most valuable cargo.
Amongst the unfortunate passengers in this ill-fated vessel,
was a Mr Jeremiah Hairsplitter, a well-known Jamaica
planter, who was on his return, for good and all, to his
native land. The whole of this gentleman's wealth, which
was enormous, will now go, it is said, (he having died
intestate,) to a p«or man in this neighbourhood, [Liverpool,!
who is nearest of kin."

Well, gentlemen (continued the little hump-backed man
in the bright yellow waistcoat,) here was a pretty finish to
all our bright anticipations ! For some time, indeed, we
entertained hopes that the reports, especially the last, might
be false ; but, alas ! they turned out too true. True, true
were they, to the letter. My father, unwilling to believe

that all was lost, called upon a lawyer in the town whera
we resided, who had a good deal to do with our late rela-
tive's affairs ; and, after mentioning to him the footing we
were on with the deceased, and the expectations he had led
us to indulge in, inquired if nothing would arise to us
from Mr Hairsplitter's effects.

" Not a rap !" was the laconic and dignified reply — " not
a cross, not a cowrie ! You haven't a shadow of claim to
anything. All that Mr Hairsplitter may kave said goes
for nothing, as it is not down in black and white, in good
legal phrase."

So, my friends, (said the narrator, with a sigh,) here
was an end to this fortune and to my luck at that bout, at
any rate. Still, gentlemen, (went on the little hump-
backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat,) I maintain
there was luck in the caul.

I was now, you must know, my friends, getting up iiv
years — that is to say, I was now somewhere about one-and-
tventy. Well, my father, thinking it full time that I should
be put in a way of doing something for myself, applied, in
my behalf, to a certain nobleman who resided in our neigh-
bourhood, and who was under obligations to my father for
some election services. When my father called on the peer
alluded to, and informed him of his object — " Why, sir,"
said his Lordship, " this is rather a fortunate circumstance
for both of us. I am just now in want of precisely such a
young man as you describe your son to be, to act as my
secretary and amanuensis, and will therefore be very glad
to employ him." His Lordship then mentioned his terms.
They were liberal, and, of course, instantly accepted. This
settled, my father was desired to send me to Cram Hall
his Lordship's residence, next day, to enter on my new
duties.

Here, then, you see, was luck at last, gentlemen, (said
the little hump-backed gentleman in the bright yellow waist-
coat ;) for the nobleman was powerful, and there was no
saying what he might do for me. Next day, accordingly, I
repaired to Cram Hall with a beating, but exulting heart ;
for I was at once proud of my employment, and terrified for
my employer, who was, I knew, a dignified, pompous, vain,
conceited personage.

" Shew off your Latin to him, Dick, my boy," said my
father, before I set out : " it will give him a good opinion
of your talents and erudition." I promised that I would.

Well, on being introduced to his Lordship, he received
me with the most affable condescension ; but there was
something about his affability, I thought, which made it
look extremely like as if it had been assumed for the pur-
pose of shewing how a great man could descend.

" Glad to see you, young man," he said. " I hope you
and I shall get on well together. But there was just one
single question regarding you, which I quite forgot to put
to your father. Do you understand Latin thoroughly ? — that
is, can you translate it readily ?'

Feeling my own strength on this point, and delighted
that he had afforded me so early an opportunity of declar-
ing it, I replied, with a degree of exultation which I hat
some difficulty in repressing — " I flatter myself, my Lord
that you will not find me deficient in that particular. I
understand Latin very well, and will readily undertake to
translate anything in that language which may be presented
to me."

" In that case," replied his Lordship, gravely, " I am
sorry to say, young man, you will not suit me."

" How, my Lord !" said I, with a look of mingled amaze-
ment and disappointment — " because I understand Latin ?
I should have thought that a recommendation to your Lord-
ship's service."

" Quite otherwise, sir," replied his Lordship, coolly. " It
may appear to you, indeed, sir, rather an odd ground of
disqualification. But the thing is easily explained, t have

1)0

TALES OF THE BORDERS

often occasion, sir," he went on, with increasing dignity,
" to write on matters of importance to my friends in the
Cabinet : and, when I have anything of a very particular
nature to say, I always write my sentiments in Latin. It
would therefore, sir, be imprudent of me to employ
any one in transcribing such letters, who is conversant
with the language alluded to ; or, indeed, otherwise
exposing them to the eye of- such a person. You will.
therefore, young man," continued the peer — now rising from
his seat, as if with a desire that I should take the move-
ment as a hint that he wished the interview to terminate —
<f present my respects to your father, and say that I am very
sorry for this affair — very sorry, indeed."

Saying this, he edged me towards the door ; and, long
before I reached it, bowed me a good morning, which there
was no evading. I acknowledged it the best way I could,
left the house, and returned home — I leave you, gentlemen,
to conceive with what feelings. My Latin, you see, of which
I was so vain, and which, with anybody else, would have
been a help to success in the world in many situations, and
in none could have been against it, was the very reverse to
me.

That there was luck in the caul, gentlemen, nevertheless,
I still maintain, (said the little hump-backed man in the
bright yellow waistcoat, laughing ;) and you will acknow-
ledge it when I tell you that, soon after the occurrence just
related, I bought a ticket in the lottery, which turned out a
prize of £20,000."

" Ha, ha ! at last !" here shouted out. with one voice, all
the little man's auditors. " So you caught it at last !**

" Not so fast, gentlemen, if you please — not so fast," said
the little man, gravely. tc The facts certainly were as I
have stated. I did buy a ticket in the lottery. I recollect
the number well, and will as long as I live. I chose it for
its oddity. It was 9999, and it did turn out a .£20,000
prize. But there is a trifling particular or two regarding it,
which I have yet to explain. A gentleman, an acquaint-
ance of mine, to whom I had expressed some regret at hav-
ing ventured so much money on a lottery ticket, offered not
only to relieve me of it, but to give me a premium of five
pounds, subject to a deduction of the price of a bowl of

funch. " A bird in hand's worth two in the bush," thought
, and at once closed with his offer. Nay, so well pleased
was I with my bargain, that I insisted on giving an addi-
tional bowl, and actually did so.

Next day, my ticket was drawn a twenty thousand pound
prize ! and I had the happiness (added the little man, with a
rueful expression of countenance) of communicating to my
friend his good luck, as the letter of advice on the subject
came, in the first instance, to me.

However, gentlemen, luck there was in the caul still,
say I, (continued the little hump-backed gentleman in the
bright yellow waistcoat.) Love, gentlemen — sweet, dear,
delightful love! — (here the little man looked extremely sen-
timental)—came to soothe my woes and banish my regrets.
Yes, my friends, (he said, observing a slight smile of
surprise and incredulity on the countenance or his auditors,
proceeding, we need hardly say, from certain impressions
regarding his personal appearance,) I say that love — dear,
delightful love — came now to my aid, to reconcile me to my
misfortunes, and to restore my equanimity. The objects of

my affections — for there were two"

" Oh, unconscionable man !" we here all exclaimed in
one breath. "Two! Ah! too bad that"

" Yes, I repeat, two," said the little man, composedly —
*' the objects of my passion were two. The one was a beau-
tiful girl of three-and-twenty — the other, a beautiful little
fortune of £10,000, of which she was in full and uncon-
trolled possession. "Well, gentlemen, to make a long story
short, we loved each other most devotedly ; for she was a
girl of singular judgment and penetration aad placed little

store by mere personal appearance in those she loved : the
mind, gentlemen — the mind was what this amiahle girl
looked to. "\Vell, as I was saying, we loved each other vith
the fondest affection ; and at length I succeeded in prevail-
ing upon her to name the happy day when we should
become one. Need I describe to you, gentlemen, what
were my transports — what the intoxicating feelings of
delight with which my whole soul was absorbed by the
contemplation of the delicious prospect that lay before me !
A beautiful woman and a fortune of £10,000 within my
grasp ! No. I'm sure I need not describe the sensations
I allude to, gentlemen — you will at once conceive and
appreciate them.

Well, my friends, all went smoothly on with me this
time. The happy day arrived — we proceeded to church.
The clergyman began the service. In three minutes more,
gentlemen, I would have been indissolubly united to mj
beloved and her £10,000, when, at this critical moment, a
person rushed breathless into the church, forced his way
through the crowd of friends by whom we were surrounded,
and caught my betrothed in his arms, exclaiming — " Jessie,
Jessie! would you forsake me? Have you forgot your
vows ?" Jessie replied by a loud shriek, and immediately
fainted.

Here, then, you see, gentlemen, (continued the little
hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat,) was a
pretty kick-up all in a moment.

In a twinkling, the bevy of friends by whom we were
accompanied scattered in all directions — some running for
water, some for brandy, some for one thing and some for
another, till there was scarcely one left in the church. The
service was, of course, instantly stopped ; and my beloved
was. in the meantime, very tenderly supported by the arms
of the stranger ; for such he was to me at any rate, although,
by no means so either to the lady herself or to her friends.
I was, as you may well believe, all astonishment and amaze-
ment at this extraordinary scene, and could not at all con-
ceive what it meant ; but it was not long before I was very
fully informed on this head. To return, however, in the
meantime, to the lady. On recovering from her fainting tit,
the stranger, who had been all along contemplating her with
a look of the most tender affection, asked her, in a gentle
voice, c< If she would still continue true to him." And, gen-
tlemen, she answered, though in a voice scarcely audible,
"Yes;" and, immediately after, the two walked out of church
arm in arm, in spite of the remonstrances and even threats
of myself and my friends — leaving us, and me in particular,
to such reflections on the uncertainty of all human events
as the circumstance which had just occurred was calculated
to excite. In three weeks after, the stranger and Jessie were
married. Who he was is soon explained. He had been a
favoured lover of Jessie's some seven years before, and had
gone abroad, where it was believed he had died, there hav-
ing been no word from him during the greater part of that
period. How this was explained I never knew ; but that
he was not dead, you will allow was now pretty clearly
established.

Now, gentlemen, (added our little friend,) I have
brought my mishaps up to the present date. What may
be still in store for me, I know not; but I have now brought
myself to the peaceful and most comfortable condition of
having no hopes of succeeding in anything, and therefor*
am freed, at least, from all liability to the pains of disap-
pointment." And here ended the story of the little hump-
backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat.

We all felt for his disappointments, and wished him
better luck.

The person to whose turn it came next to entertain us,
was a quiet, demure looking personage, of grave demean-
our, but of mild and pleasant countenance. His gravity,
we thought, partook a little of melancholy ; and he was in

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

01

consequence, recognised generally in the house by the title
of the melancholy gentleman, lie was, however, very far
from being morose ; indeed, on the contrary, he was exceed-
ingly kind and gentle in his manner, and would not, I am
convinced, have harmed the meanest insect that crawls, let
alone his own species.

" Well, gentlemen," said this person, on being informed
that it was his turn to divert us with some story or other,
" I will do the best I can to entertain you, and will follow
the example of my unfortunate predecessor of the evening,
by choosing a subject of something of a personal nature.

" To begin, then, my friends," went on the melancholy
gentleman — " I do not, I think, arrogate too much when I
say that I am as peaceable and peace-loving a man as ever
existed. I have always abhorred strife and wrangling ; and
never knowingly or willingly interfere in any way with the
affairs of my neighbours or of others. I would, in short,
at any time, rather sacrifice my interests than quarrel with
any one ; while I reckon it the greatest happiness to be let
alone, and to be allowed to get through the world quietly
and noiselessly. From my very infancy, my friends, (said
the melancholy gentleman,) I loved quiet above all things ;
and there is a tradition in our family strikingly corrobora-
tive of this. The tradition alluded to bears that I never
cried while an infant, and that I never could endure my
rattle. Well, gentlemen, such were and such still are my
dispositions. But, offending no one, and interfering with
no one, how have I been treated in my turn ? You shall
hear.

At school, I was thrashed by the master for not interfering
to prevent my companions fighting ; and I was thrashed by
my companions for not taking part in their quarrels : so
that, between them, I had, I assure you, a very miserable
life of it. However, these were but small matters compared
to what befell me after I had fairly embarked in the world.

My first experience after this of how little my peaceful
and inoffensive disposition would avail me, was with an
evening club which I joined. For some time I got on very
well with the persons who composed this association, and
seemed — at least I thought so — to be rather a favourite with
them, on account of my quiet and peaceable demeanour; and,
under ordinary circumstances, perhaps I might have con-
tinued so. But the demon of discord got amongst them,
and I became, in consequence of my non-resisting qualities,
the scapegoat of their spleen; or, rather, I became the safety-
valve by which their passions found a harmless egress.
But, to drop metaphor, my friends, (said the melancholy
gentleman,) the club got to loggerheads on a certain
political question — I forget now what it wa»— and for some
nights there was a great deal of angry discussion and violent
altercation on the subject. In these debates, however, in
accordance with my natural disposition, I took no part
whatever, except by making some fruitless attempts to
abate the resentment of the parties, by thrusting in a jocular
remark or so, when anything particularly severe was said.
Well, gentlemen, how was I rewarded for this charitable
conduct, tlxink you ? Why, I'll tell you.

On the third or fourth night, I think it was, of the dis-
cussion alluded to, a memoer got up and said, address-
ing the club — " My friends, a good deal of vitupera-
tion and opprobrious language has been used in this here
room, regarding the question AVC have been discussing these
three or four nights back ; but we have all spoke our minds
freely, and stood to it like men who isn't afeared to speak
their sentiments anywhere. Now, I says that's what I likes.
I likes a man to stand to his tackle. But I hates, as I do
the Devil, your snakes in the grass, your smooth-chopped
fellows, who hears all and never says nothing, so as how you
can't tell whether he is fish or flesh. I say, I hate such
dastardly, sneaking fellows, who won't speak out ; and I says •
that such are un£t for this company ;" (here the speaker

looked hard at me ;) " and I move that he be turned out
directly, neck and heel."

Well, this speech, my friends, (went on the melancholy
gentleman,) which you will perceive was levelled at me,
was received with a shout of applause by both parties. The
ruffing and cheering was immense ; and most laudably
prompt was the execution of the proposal that excited it.
Before I had time to evacuate the premises quietly and of
my own accord, which I was about to do, I was seized by
the breast by a tall ferocious-looking fellow who sat next
me, and who was immediately aided by three or four others,
and dragged over every obstacle that stood in the way to
the door, out of which I was finally kicked with particular
emphasis.

Such, then, my friends, (said the melancholy gentleman,)
was the first most remarkable instance of the benefits I was
likely to derive from my inoffensive non-meddling dispo-
sition. However, it was my nature; and neither this
unmerited treatment nor any other usage which I afterwards
experienced could alter it.

Some time after this, I connected myself with a certain
congregation in our town, and it unfortunately happened
that, soon after I joined them, they came all to sixes and
sevens about a minister. One party was for a Mr Triterite,
the other a Mr White. These were distinguished, as usual
in such and similar cases, by the adjunct tie, which had, as
you may perceive, a most unhappy effect in the case of the
name of the first gentleman, whose followers were called
Triteriteites, and those of the other Whiteites. However,
this was but a small matter. To proceed. In the squabbles
alluded to, gentlemen, I took no part ; it being a matter of
perfect indifference to me which of the candidates had the
appointment. All that I desired was, that I might be let
alone, and not be called upon to interfere in any way in the
dispute. But would they allow me this indulgence, think
you ? No, not they. They resolved, seemingly, that my
I unobtrusive conduct should be no protection to me. Two
or three days after the commencement of the contest, I was
waited upon by a deputation from a committee of the Tri-
teriteites, and requested to join them in opposing the White-
ites. This I civilly declined ; telling them, at the same time,
that it was my intention and my earnest wish to avoid all
interference in the pending controversy ; that I was per-
fectly indifferent to which of the candidates the church was
giv«n, and would be very glad to become a hearer of either
of them ; that, in short, I wished to make myself no
enemies on account of any such contest.

" Oh, very well, Mr B ," said the spokesman, redden-
ing with anger, " we understand all this perfectly, and think
very little, I assure you, of such mean, evasive conduct.
Had you said boldly and at once that you favoured the
other party, we would at least have given you credit for
honesty. But you may depend upon it, sir," he added
" White never will get the church. That you may rely upon."

<f Scurvy conduct," muttered another of the committee, as
he was retiring after the speaker.

" Shabby, snivelling, drivelling conduct," muttered a
third.

" Low, mean, sneaking conduct," said a fourth.

" Dirty subterfuge," exclaimed a fifth. And off the gentle-
men went.

But they had not yet done with me. One of the number
was a person with whom I had some acquaintance, and the
next day I received from him the following note: — " Sir, your
unmanly, (I will not mince the matter with you,) your un-
manly and disingenuous conduct yesterday, when called upon
by Mr Triterite's committee, has so disgusted me that I beg
you to understand that we are friends no longer. A candid
and open avowal of opposite sentiments from those which
I entertain, I trust, I shall be always liberal enough to tole-
rate in any one, without prejudice to previous intimacy ;

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

but I cannot remain on terms of friendship -with a man who
has the meanness to seek to conciliate the party he opposes,
by concealing his adherence to that which he has espoused.
—I am, sir," &c.

Well, my friends, (said the melancholy gentleman,) was
not this an extremely hard case ? To be thus abused, and
reviled, and scouted, for merely desiring to be allowed to live
in peace, and to have nothing to do with a squabble in
which I did not feel in any way interested. But this was
not all. I was lampooned, caricatured, and paragraphed in
the newspapers, in a thousand different ways. In the first,
I was satirized as the fair dealer ; in the second, I was
represented as a wolf in sheep's clothing; and in the last, I
was hinted at as " a certain quiet double-faced gentleman,
not a hundred miles from hence."

But still this was not all. Two or three days after I had
been waited on by the Triteriteites, the same honour was
done me by the Whiteites, and with similar views. To the
gentlemen of this party, I said precisely what I had said
to those of the opposite faction, and begged of them, in
heaven's name, to let me alone, and settle the matter amongst
them as they best could.

" Well," replied one of the gentlemen, when I had done,
"I must say, I did not expect this of you, Mr B. I thought
I could have reckoned on your support ; but it doesn't sig-
nify. We can secure Mr White's appointment without you.
But I must say, if you had been the candid man I took
you for, you would have told me, ere this, that you meant to
have supported the other party. I really cannot think very
highly, Mr B., of your conduct in this matter ; but it doesn't
signify, sir — it doesn't signify. We now know who are our
friends and who are not. Mr Triterite, you may depend
upon it, will never get the church, even though he has you
to support him." Saying this, he turned on his heel and
left me, followed by his train, who, precisely as the others
had done, muttered as they went, " shabby fellow," " mean
scamp," " shuffling conduct," "snake in the grass/' (favourite
phrase this,) &c. &c.

Well, my friends, here you see, (said the melancholy
gentleman,) without giving any one the smallest offence,
and desiring nothing so much as peace and the good will
of my neighbours — here was I, I say, become obnoxious to
heaven knows how many people; for my reputation naturally
extended from the committees to the other members of the
congregation, and from them again to their friends *and
acquaintances ; so that I had, in the end, a pretty formidable
array of enemies. The consequence of this affair was, that
I soon found myself compelled, from the petty persecutions
and annoyances of all sorts to Avhich I was subsequently ex-
posed, to leave the congregation altogether. However, to
compensate for all these troubles and vexations, I had the
good fortune, about this time, to become acquainted with a
veiy amiable young lady, as peaceably inclined and as great
a lover of quiet as myself. This lady I married, having
previously secured a house in one of the quietest and most
retired places in the town, so as to be out of the way of all
noise and din. Immediately beneath this house, however,
there was an empty unlet shop, which I could not help re-
garding with a suspicious eye, from an apprehension that it
might be taken by a person of some noisy calling or other ;
and so much at last did this fear alarm me, that I deter-
mined on taking the shop into my own hands, and running
myself the risk of its letting — thus securing the choice of a
tenant. Having come to this resolution, then, I called upon
the landlord and inquired the rent.

" O sir," said he, " the shop is let."

" Let, sir !" replied I ; " I saw a ticket on it yesterday."

" That might well be, sir, for it was only let this morn-

ing

" And to whom, sir, is it let, may I ask ? I mean, sir,

hn* io Viio Kuainass ?"

what is his business :

" A tinsmith, sir," said the landlord, coolly.

" A tinsmith !" replied I, turning pale. " Then my worst
fears are realized !"

The landlord looked surprised, and inquired what I meant.
I told him, and had a laugh from him for my pains.

Yes, my friends, (said the melancholy gentleman,) a tin-
smith had taken the shop — a working tinsmith — and a most
industrious and hardworking one he was, to my cost. But thij
was not the worst of it. The tinsmith was not a week in his
new shop, when he received a large West India order ; and
when I mention that this piece of good fortune, as I have no
doubt he reckoned it, compelled him to engage about a score
of additional hands, I may safely leave it to yourselves, gen-
tlemen, to conceive what sort of a neighbourhood I soon
found myself in. On this subject, then, I need only say
that, in less than a week thereafter, I was fairly hammered
out of the house, and compelled to look out for other quarters.
But this, after all, was merely a personal matter — one which
did not involve the inimical feelings of others towards me ;
and, therefore, though an inconvenience at the time, it did
not disturb my quiet beyond the moment of suffering, as
those unhappy occurrences did in which I had, however un-
wittingly, provoked the enmity of others; and, therefore, after
Iliad been fairly settled in my new house, I thought very little
more about the matter, and was beginning to enjoy the calm,
quiet life which I so much loved, as nobody had meddled
with me for upwards of three weeks. But, alas ! this felicity
was to be but of short duration. The election of a member
of Parliament came on, and I had a vote — but I had deter-
mined to make no use of it ; for, being but little of a poli-
tician, and, above all tilings, desiring to be on good terms with
everybody, whatever might be their religious or political
persuasions, I thought the best way for me was to take no share
whatever in the impending contest ; it being a mere matter
of moonshine to me whether Whig or Tory was uppermost.
In adopting this neutral course, I expected, and 1 think not
unreasonably, to get quietly through with the matter, and
that I should avoid giving offence to any one. I will further
confess, that, besides this feeling, I was guided to a certain
extent by interest. I had many customers of opposite poli-
tical tenets — Whig, Tory, and Radical — and I was desirous
of retaining the custom and good will of them all, by taking
part with none. Grievous error — dreadful mistake !

Soon after, the candidates started, and there happened to
be one of each of the three classes just mentioned — that is,
Whig, Toiy, and Radical. I received a card from one of my
best customers, a Whig, containing a larger order than usual
for tea, wine, spirits, &c. — such being the articles in which
I deal, gentlemen, (said our melancholy friend;) but, at the
bottom of the slip, there was the following note : — " Mr
S— — hopes he may count on Mr B.'s supporting the liberal
interest in the ensuing election, by giving his vote to Lord

Botherem. MrS is perfectly aware of Mr B.'s indifference

to political matters ; but it is on this very account that Mr
S • ' reckons on his support, as it can be a matter of no
moment to him to whom he gives his vote."

Well, gentlemen, here you see was the first attack upon
me ; and the second soon followed. I saw the storm that
was gathering. In the course of the very same day, I was
waited on by another customer, an inveterate Tory.

" Well, Mr B.," he said, on entering my shop, " I am
come to solicit a very important favour from you ; but still
one which I am sure you will not refuse an old friend and
a tolerably good customer. In short, Mr B.," he went on,
" knowing it is a matter of moonshine to you who is mem-
ber for this burgh — for I've heard you say so — I have come
to ask your vote for Mr Blatheringham, the Tory candi-
date."

" My dear sir," 1 replied, " you are quite right in saying

that it is a matter of moonshine to me what may be the

I Political tenets of our member but I have resolved — and I

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

63

have done so for tlmt very reason — not to interfere in the
matter at all. I do not mean to vote on any side." And I
laughed ; but my friend looked grave.

•< Oh ! you don't, Mr B. !" he said. " Then am I to
understand that you won't oblige me in this matter, although
it is on a point which is of no consequence to you, on your
own confession, and, therefore, requiring no sacrifice of
political principle."

" My dear sir," replied I, in the mildest and most conci-
liating manner possible, anxious to turn away wrath — " I
mve already said"

" Oh ! I know very well, sir, what you have said, and I'll
recollect it, too, you may depend upon it, and not much to your
profit. My account's closed with you, sir. Good morning !"
And out of the shop he went, in a furious passion. On the
day following this, I received a note from the Whig canvasser,
in reply to one from me on the subject of his solicitation, in
ivhich I had expressed nearly the same sentiments which I
delivered verbally to my Tory friend : and in this note I was
served with almost precisely the same terms which the Tory
had used in return, only he carried the matter a little far-
ther— telling me plainly that he would not only withdraw
his own custom from me, but do his endeavour to deprive
me of the custom of those of his friends who dealt with me,
who were of the same political opinions with himself. This
I thought barefaced enough ; and I daresay you will agree
with me, my friends, (said the melancholy gentleman,) that
it was so.

Here, then, were two of my best customers lost to me for
ever. Nay, not only their own custom, but that of all their
political partisans who happened to deal with me; for the one
was fully as good as his word, and the other a great deal better:
that is to say, the one who threatened to deprive me of the
custom of his friends, as well as his own, did so most effect-
ually ; while the other,' who held out no such threat, did
preciaely the same thing by his friends, and with at least
equal success.

In truth, I wanted now but to be asked to support the
Radical interest, to be fairly ruined ; and this was a piece
of good fortune that was not long denied me. " My dear
Bob," — thus commenced a note, which I had, on this unhappy
occasion, from an intimate friend, a rattling, rough, out-
spoken fellow — " As I know your political creed to be
couched in the phrase — ' Let who likes be king, I'll be sub-
ject'— that is, you don't care one of your own figs what
faction is uppermost — I request, as a personal favour, your
support for Mr Sweepthedecks ; and this I do the more
readily, that I know there is no chance of your being pre-
engaged. Now, you mustn't refuse me, Bob, else you and
I will positively quarrel; for I have promised to secure
you."

PI ere, then, you see, my friends, (said the melancholy
gentleman,) was a climax. The unities in the system of
persecution adopted against me, were strictly observed.
There was beginning, middle, and end complete — nothing
wanting. Well — still determined to maintain my neutrality —
I wrote a note to my friend, expressing precisely the same
sentiments to which I have so often alluded. To this note
I received no answer ; and can only conjecture the effect
it had upon him by the circumstance of his withdraw-
ing his custom from me, and never again entering my
shop.

Observe, however, my friends, (here said the melancholy
gentleman,) that, in speaking of the persecutions I under-
went on this occasion, I have merely selected instances —
you are by no means to understand that the cases just
mentioned included all the annoyance I met with on the
subject of my vote. Not at all. I have, as already said,
merely instanced these cases. I was assailed by scores of
others in the same way. Indeed, there was not a day, for

upwards of three weeks, that I was not badgered and abused
by somebody or other — ay, and that, too, in my own shop.
But my shop was now not worth keeping ; for W hig, Tory,
and Radical had deserted me, and left me to the full enjoy-
ment of my reflections on the course I had pursued. IH
short, I found that, in endeavouring to offend no one, I had
offended everybody; and that, in place of securing my own
peace, I had taken the most effectual way I possibly could
to make myself unhappy.

Well, in the meantime, you see, my friends, (continued
the melancholy gentleman,) the election came on, and was
gained by the Whig candidate. The streets were on the
occasion paraded by the partisans of each of the parties ;
and, as is not unusual in such cases, there was a great deal
of mischief done, and of which, as a sufferer, I came in for
a very liberal share. The Whig mob attacked my shop,
and demolished everything in it, to celebrate their triumph,
as they said, by plucking a hen — in other words, one who
would not support them. The Tory mob, again, attacked
my house, and smashed every one of my windows, alleging
that, as I was not a Tory, I must be a Whig ; and, finally,
the third estate came in, and finished what the other two
had left undone, because I was not a Radical.

Here, then, gentlemen, was I, I repeat, who had offended
no one, or, at least, had given no one any reasonable grounds
of offence, but who, on the contrary, was most anxious to
remain on friendly terms with everybody — here, I say
then, was I, surrounded with enemies, persecuted at all
hands, my business dwindled away to nothing, and, lastly,
my effects destroyed, to the extent of nearly all I possessed
in the world. There was still, however, a small residue
left ; and with this I now determined to retire to the coun-
try, and to take a small house in some sequestered place,
at a distance from all other human habitations, with the
view of ascertaining if I could not there secure the peace
and quietness which I found the most harmless and in-
offensive conduct could not procure me in society. I deter-
mined, in short, to fly the face of man. Well, such a house
as I wished, I, after some time, found ; and to it I immedi-
ately retired. It was situated in a remote part of the
country, in a romantic little glen, and several miles distant,
on all hands, from any other residence — just the tiling I
wanted. Here at last, thought I, as I gazed on the solitude
around me, I will find that peace and quiet that are so dear
to me ; here is no one to quarrel with me because I do
not choose to think as he does — none to disturb me
because I seek to disturb no one. Fatal error again !

There was a small trouting stream at a short distance
from the house. I was fond of angling. I went to the
river with rod and line, threw in, (it was the very next day
after I had taken possession of my new residence,) and in
the next instant found myself seized by the cuff of the neck.
I had trespassed ; and an immediate prosecution, notwith-
standing all the concession I could make, was the conse-
quence. The proprietor at whose instance this proceeding
took place, was a brute — a tyrant. To all my overtures, his
only reply was, that he was determined to make an example
of me ; and this he did, to the tune of about a score of
pounds. This occurrence, of course, put an immediate stop
to my fishing recreations ; and, at the same time, excited
some suspicion in my mind as to the perfect felicity which
I was likely to enjoy in my retirement. Plaving given up
all thoughts of angling, I now took to walking, and deter-
mined to make a general inspection of the country in my
neighbourhood • taking one direction one day, and another
the next, and so on, till I should have seen all around me
to the extent of some miles — "And surely this," thought I to
myself, "will give offence to nobody." Well, in pursuance of
this resolution, I started on my first voyage of discovery;
but had not proceeded far, when a beautiful shady avenue,
with its Tate flung invitingly open, tempted me to diverge.

04

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

I entered it, ami w.is sauntering luxuriously along, with my
hat in my hand, enjoying the cool shade of the lofty um-
brageous trees by which it was skirted, and admiring the
beauties around me — for it was, indeed, a most lovely place.
I was, in short, in a kind of delightful reverie, when all of
a sudden I found myself again seized by the cuff of the
neck, by a ferocious looking fellow with a gun in his
hand.

" "What do you want here, sir?" said the savage, looking
at me as if he would have torn me to pieces.

" Nothing, my good fellow," replied I, mildly. " I want
•nothing. I came here merely to enjoy a walk in this beauti-
ful avenue."

" Then, you'll pay for your walk, I warrant you. Curse
me, if you don't ! You have no right here, sir. Didn't you
see the ticket at the entrance, forbidding all strangers to
come here ?"

I declared I did not ; which was true.

" Then I'll teach you to look sharper next time. Your
name, sir?"

I gave it ; and, in three days after, was served with a
summons for another trespass, and was again severely
fined.

" Strange land of liberty this !" thought I on this occasion —
as, indeed, I had done on some others before — " where one
dare not think as they please without making a host of
enemies, and where you can neither turn to the right or
the left without being taken by the neck."

I now, in short, found, gentlemen, (said our melancholy
friend,) that I had only exchanged one scene of troubles
for another ; and that even my remote and sequestered
situation was no protection to me whatever from annoy-
ance and persecution ; and I therefore resolved to quit,
and return once more to the town, to make another
trial of the justice of mankind ; and in this resolution I
was confirmed by a letter which I shortly after this re-
ceived from the proprietor whose lands adjoined the small
patch of ground that was attached to the house I resided
in.

" Sir," began this new correspondent, " you must be
aware that it is the business of the tenant of the house you
occupy to keep the drain which passes your garden in an
efficient state, throughout the length of its passage by your
ground. Now, sir, it is just now very far from being in
such a condition ; and the consequence is, that a large
portion 'of my land in your neighbourhood is laid under
water, to my serious loss. I therefore request that you will
instantly see to this, to prevent further trouble. I am,
sir," &c.

Well, gentlemen, (continued our melancholy friend,)
to prevent this further trouble, and to keep, if possible, on
^ood terms with my neighbour, I went, immediately on
receipt of his letter, and examined the drain in question ;
resolving, at the same time, to do what he requested, or rather
commanded, if it could be done at a reasonable cost,
although I conceived it was a matter with which I had
nothing to do. It was an affair of my landlord's altogether,
I thought, especially as nothing had been said to me about
the drain when I took the house — at least nothing that I
recollected. However, as I have said, I determined, for
peace sake, to repair it in the meantime, and to take my land-
lord in my own hand for restitution. On looking at the drain,
J. found it indeed in a very bad state, and immediately sent
for a person skilled in such matters to give me an idea of
what might be the cost of putting it in proper order; and was
informed that it might be put in very good condition, in such
a state as my neighbour could not object to, for about fifty
pounds. Now, gentlemen, this was precisely equal to two
years' rent of my house, and, I thought, rather too large a
price to pay for the good will of my neighbour ; and I
resisted, at the same time referring him to my landlord.

My landlord said he had nothing to tio with it, and that I

must settle the affair with Mr T the best way I could.

Well, I took advice in the matter for I thought it looked
very like a conspiracy against my simplicity and good nature ;
and was advised by all means to resist. The result was,

that my neighbour, Mr T , immediately commenced a

suit against me ; and, in my own defence, I was compelled to
raise an action of relief against my landlord ; so that, when
I returned to town, I brought with me from my sweet,
calm, peaceable retirement, a couple of full-blown law pleas
of the most promising dimensions. Who would have
thought it — who would have dreamt it — that, in this seclu-
sion, this desert as I may call it, I should have got involved
in such a world of troubles ? Well, gentlemen, what do you
think was the result ? Why, both cases were given against
me. In the one, I had to pay costs — and in the other, to
pay costs and repair the drain too ; and (added the me-
lancholy gentleman, with a sigh) I am at this moment
so far on my way to Edinburgh to pay the last instalment
of these ruinous and iniquitous claims." And with this
the melancholy gentleman ended the sad story of his
sufferings.

We all pitied him from our hearts, and each in
his own way offered him the condolence that his case de-
manded.

He thanked us for the sympathy \ve expressed, and said
that he felt encouraged by it to ask our advice as to how
he should conduct himself in future, so as to obtain the
peace and quiet he so earnestly desired.

" What would you recommend me to do, gentlemen —
where would you advise me to go," he said, in an imploring
and despairing tone — nay, we thought half crying — " to
escape this merciless and unprovoked persecution ?"

We were all much affected by this piteous appeal, and
felt every desire to afford such counsel to our ill-used friend
as might be of service to him ; but, while we did so, we
felt also the extreme difficulty of the case ; for we did not
see by what possible line of conduct he could escape per-
secution, if the very harmless and inoffensive one which
he had hitherto of his own accord adopted, had been found
ineffectual for his protection.

Indeed, it was the very, nay, the only one which, a priori,
we would have recommended to him; but, as he had clearly
shewn us that it was an ineffectual one, we really felt greatly
at a loss what to say ; and, under this difficulty, we all re-
mained for some time thoughtful and silent. At length,
however, it was agreed amongst us, as the case was a poser,
that we should sleep on the matter, and in the morning come
prepared with such advice as our intervening cogitations
should suggest.

The melancholy gentleman again thanked us for the kind
interest we took in his unhappy case ; adding, that he wau
now so disheartened, so depressed in spirits, by the usage
he had met with, that he almost felt it an obligation to be
allowed to live.

As it was now wearing late, and our landlord had just
come in to announce that supper was ready, and would be
served up when ordered, we agreed to rest satisfied for the
night with the extempore autobiographies, as I may call
them, of our two worthy companions — the little hunch-
backed personage in the bright yellow waistcoat, and the
melancholy gentleman; but we, at the same time, resolved
that we would resume the same mode of entertainment on
the following evening, and continue it till every one had
contributed his quota.

WILSON'S

?£}t0tomal, arratritfonarg, anti

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE VICTIM OF PUBLIC OPINION.

MEN who disobey the laws, though not possessed of any
true courage, are certainly possessed of some degree of
hardihood — at least, insensibility to danger — "without which
they would not bring themselves within the range of the
dread arm of public authority. That the possession of
such a quality, however, gives peace of mind, is a proposi-
tion which no one will advance ; for, if there is any real,
unqualified misery on earth, it is to be found in the bosom
of the wicked. The false hardihood which the bad man
possesses is only experienced in the beginning of his career.
It is gradually broken in upon as he advances in crime ;
and is, in general, succeeded by a nervous irritability which
renders him the slave of fears which would be despised by
the honest coward. That he perseveres in his course, is not
the sign of a continuance of his former false courage : it is
the mere force of habit ; the refuge from that very nervous-
ness which pursues him with terrors ; an escape from him-
self and his own thoughts ; and a source of livelihood,
without which he would starve. His unhappiness increases
with the number of his breaches of God's law and the
statutes of the land, and he dies (not always in his bed)
the victim of those fears which, at the outset of his life,
he despised.

There is, however, another character in the world — the
victim of a morbid wish for reputation, or of a co-ordinate
fear of public reproach. This character (and the world is
full of such) is one of sheer cowardice. He is, in general,
not more virtuous than his neighbours ; he is, on the con-
trary, often the cause of crime, always of mischance to
himself. His endeavours to cover his faults or misfortunes,
dictated by fear alone, and not regulated by a genuine
sense of virtue, are often vicious, always ridiculous, and
never without such a portion of fear and trembling that he
is equally miserable with the breaker of the ten command-
ments and the laws of the land.

In this way, these two characters often meet in tne com-
mon experience of morbid terrors. The first has been
often described — the heart of the criminal has been well
dissected. The latter is well known ; but will be nothing
the worse for being exemplified in a truly ludicrous cha-
racter, who, about the middle of the last century, figured
in the town of Selkirk.

Peter Penilheugh was a souter, or shoemaker, in the
Border town which has become so famous for the possession
of " sewers of single-soled shoon," about the time of the
Rebellion of 1745. He carried on his trade in a small
house, well known to this day, with a timber front,
remarkable in consequence of the small round window
which gave light to the room where Peter single-handed
stood his ground against poverty. He was married to
Robina Harden, a daughter of a flesher of that name
living in Selkirk, who bore him no children, and seemed to
be only useful to him in one peculiar way, to be afterwards
noticed.

These two individuals were the very opposite of each

other. She was reckoned good-looking ; and, though this

might be a vulgar prejudice, she was at least showy, tall,

fair, and erect. Her power did not lie so much in her face

118. VOL. III.

as in her arm — a fact not unknown to her husband. She
might be called a bouncing buxom woman — fond .of dress,
of going out, of figuring at fairs, of chatting with soldiers,
and of running down the characters of her neighbours.
She was regardless of her own reputation, which she left
entirely to her husband to defend — an occupation which,
though requiring no usual powers of specious glossing and
representation, was undertaken by him with uncommon
though ill-requited zeal.

Her husband, on the other hand, was considerably
older. He could not boast of being half so well-
favoured as many of the male associates of Robina ; and,
on that account, did not come in for any share of her
approbation. Of a timid and inoffensive nature, he never
commenced a brawl with the partner of his affections,
whom he loved with a strength equal to her hatred. lie
was a great advocate for peace ; a state of inanition which
she considered tame and unworthy of her regard, and
which, accordingly, she took every opportunity of enliven-
ing with a dash of domestic war.

There was one characteristic possessed by Penilheugh,
which, being a ruling passion, deserves some more
particular notice. Though a man in an humble sphere of
life, and much below that consequence which would have
entitled him to any share of public attention, he pos-
sessed a strong ambition of being considered of good
repute — " a man o' stautus" — by the inhabitants of his
native town. This love of reputation was extended to that
general character which is found so much in the mouths
of the public, and which generally has so little meaning —
of being " well respected ;" of having a " fair reputation,"
an " unblemished repute;" of being " godly and well-living;"
an " example to his fellow men," and so forth. In these
floating eulogiums there is never found any specialty or
particular. Fame does not like particulars, because these
require proof. A general assertion often proves itself; and
the people who are greedy of public reputation — great
hunters of a good name — love to shelter themselves under
such denominations as carry a high-sounding title to supe-
rior excellence, leaving particular acts of virtue to the com-
mon, every-day people of the world, who, not caring for
praise, seem unconscious of the good they perform, and,
therefore, are totally unworthy of reward.

This love of being considered a good member of society,
and " a man o' stautus," was, in Penilheugh, as is always
the case, accompanied with the greatest horror of being con-
sidered capable of doing anything to sully that reputation
which it was the object of his desire to be thought worthy
of. He carried this feature of his character to an extent
which made him ridiculous. The whisper of scandal was
.dreaded by him as if it had been gifted with the powers of
the simoom. He never spoke to any one of suspected re-
putation, avoided all places where it was indecorous to be
seen, seldom laughed, never staid from church, concealed
the infirmities of his wife, never tasted liquor, and avoided
places of amusement. The authorities of scandal in the
town were the objects of his fear and adulation. He never
passed them without a salutation, and never spoke to them
without a compliment. He was, in fact, the victim of
fear of public reproach, the consequence of an extreme

6G

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

moral timidity, which was constitutional to him, and, no
doubt, increased by the consciousness of being placed by
his wife in a situation where the shafts of ridicule, a wea-
pon he disliked above all things, might hit him with pecu-
liar force and effect.

This peculiarity of Penilheugh's character was quite well
known to Robina, who did not fail to take advantage of it.
She was in the practice of constantly maltreating him.
His fear of exposure, and of being published as a man who
kept an unruly house— a fear he laboured under with the
greatest pain — induced him, or rather forced him, to bear
with the abuse and even blows that were daily heaped on
him by his wife. She knew well this weakness, and did
not fail, when in the act of dealing out her chastisement
with her usual force and address, to make as much noise as
possible, whereby the poor victim forgot his pain in the
terror of having it generally known that they did^not live
agreeably together, and that he was " hen-pecked."

It was never well understood what particular demerit, on
the part of Penilheugh, brought down upon him the indig-
nation of his wife. He was, as already said, a quiet man ;
and his fear of being talked of in the town disrepectfully,
stood in place of a good moral restraint against doing any-
thing to merit the trouble which his spouse took with his
skin ; and, while he did nothing to anger her before she
began, he was as quiet as a lamb, not only during the
period occupied by her operations, but after the work was
finished to her satisfaction.

The public knew these things, and speculated upon them
without coming to any very sound conclusion. A serious
investigation of the cause of the broils being, perhaps, un-
worthy of the subject, the neighbours, as is generally the
case, turned it to the account of laughter. Some said that
Robina took so much trouble with her husband merely for
the sake of exercise to herself — a quaint way of accounting
for a thing which is not often done gratuitously, and, besides,
as another said, sufficiently disproved by the fact that she
took more pleasure in beating Penilheugh than people gene-
rally in performing an operation for the sheer and appa-
rently useless purpose of exercising the body. Another
said, with a similar attempt at humour, that she did it for
the purpose of exercising him, from a feeling that his
sedentary habits required some circulation of the blood — a
plausible explanation, answered another, but also liable to
the charge of quaintness, besides being exposed to the
objection, that, although circulation of the blood may be
good for a person of sedentary habits, the drawing of blood
has never held that reputation.

But the speculations of the public on this subject were
suddenly put a stop to by the entire cessation of Robina
Penilheugh's labours ; for — whether it was that she had got
wearied of a thing which she had endeavoured in vain to
imbue with any colours of well-marked variety, or that,
having wrought so long without getting any thanks, she
had considered him ungrateful — she left him one night
just as he expected she was going to retire to bed, taking
with her a great many portable articles of furniture, all
her valuables, (with the exception of a leather thong, which
Penilheugh was well acquainted with,) and a considerable
portion of her husband's linen. Penilheugh soon ascer-
tained, in a private way, that his wife had eloped with a
soldier upwards of six feet high, (Penilheugh was only five
and a half,) for whom he had made a pair of very good
shoes.

This circumstance was a great grief to Penilheugh — not
so much from the loss of hi? wife, as from the loss of his
reputation, which would be an inevitable consequence.
His only remedy lay in putting as fair a face upon his
wife's flight as his ingenuity could suggest ; and the best
mode of accomplishing this, was to lay a good foundation
in the proper quarter, by throwing himself in the wqj of

the chiefs of the scandal coteries of the town. The mala
director of these was Walter Gibson, a leather-merchant,
a neighbour of Penilheugh's ; and the female, Jean Currie,
widow of John Currie, a barber, w'ho had long figured in
the same line, and from whom his widow had derived her
information and power of communicating it.

Penilheugh first threw himself in the way of Gibson.
The onset was instantaneous.

" Is Robina awa frae ye, Peter, for guid an' a ?" began
Walter.

" Wheesht !" answered Peter ; "speak reverently, man —
ane's reputation is at stake in an affair o' that delicate nature.
I, wha hae contrived to bear a character sae replete wi
honour as mine, canna be a'thegither perfectly easy under
sic a question. Dinna ye ken, Walter, that the man
wha has parted wi' his wife wham he is bound to cherish
in his bosom, an' defend against wind an weather, canna
be weel spoken o' f — and wha can blaw the breath o' sus-
picion on my character ? Na, Walter, my wife and I arc
no separated. I hae merely gien her, puir thing, some
some snia' respite frae that eternal wark she is aye sae
kindly engaged in, to mak me comfortable. She's awa to
the saut water."

" A'body kens, Peter," said Walter, who knew his weak
side, " that your character is far beyond my power to
injure it. It's no even in the power o' a man o' weire,
fierce as thae creatures are, to stab a repute purified by a'
the four cardinal virtues — justice, prudence, temperance,
and fortitude."

This mention of the soldier went to Peter's heart like his
sword ; but he tried to rally.

" Very guid, Walter, very guid; I really dinna think a
man-at-arms could injure my repute ; but, God be praised !
I hae little to do wi' thae gentry. George Sinclair, nae
doot, didna pay me for the shoon I made to him before he
left Selkirk ; but that's the way o' his craft. It's mercifu
he couldna tak awa my reputation alang wi' my leather."

" If he has ta'en frae ye, Peter," said Walter, " nae
ither leather than what made the shoon that carried him
frae Selkirk, there's nae ill dune. Ye'll no care muckle
aboot a pair o' shoon. But, if I'm no cheated, tf.ie leather he
has run aff wi' winna hide him frae your just indignation,
Peter."

" There's mair souter's lair in that speech," replied
Peter, " than I can understand; and it's no my way to steal
ither folk's education. It's weel kent ye're clever, and, nao
doot, weel acquainted wi' the saying o' Matthew, that
every idle word spoken by man maun be gien an account
o'. When the prophet said that ane's reputation is like a
box o' jewels, there's nae doot he meant, in sae far as oor
trade is concerned, a box o' tools ; and nae man can ken
better than you what a crime it wad be to steal frae rce
my implements o' trade."

" Your reputation, Peter," said Walter, " is, I bt4ieve,
equal to that o' ony man in Selkirk — a gey wide word—-
an' I'm no the man that wad injure it. When does Robina
come back frae the saut water ?"

" When she's got aneuch o' it," replied Peter, glad to
think Walter was off the scent. " Ye'll maybe look down
and bear me company in her absence ?"

Walter replied that he would; and Peter left him, to
endeavour to cross the path of Mrs Currie. In this he was
successful, as the stately Queen of Scandal was just in the
act of returning to her house, after a long round she had
made among the neighbours, collecting and collating all the
particulars of the elopement.

" Weel, Mrs Jean," commenced Peter, suaviter et molli-
ttr, "ye surely maun hae been takin something o' the
elixir kind the day, for ye are lookin like a young lassie
gaun to be married, wi' a' her smiles aboot her."

•' Thank ye, Peter !" replied Mrs Currie : " I hae indeed

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

been gettin a wee drap o' the elixir kind, a3 ye ca't ; if
there's onything that canmak me young again, it's a pleasant,
dainty, stirrin bit o' news."

" What's stirrin i' the toun the day ?" inquired the
trembling Peter.

" They say," replied Jean, " that George Sinclair, the
man-at-arms, has deserted wi' a pair o' your shoon, Peter."

" It's very true," replied Peter; " Robina, wha's awa to
the saut water, tauld me the same story — but I maun just
put up wi' the loss. There's ae comfort in't — I can stand
the loss, an' my reputation's no concerned in the affair."

" It wadna be easy to hurt that," replied Jean. " Wal-
ter Gibson says ye hac a' the carnal virtues, amounting to
u great number. You men are weel aff. We puir women
hue muckle reason to be proud when we can say we hae
ane. Robina maun be a proud woman, Peter, to get youT
leave to gae to the saut water."

" Puir thing!" replied Peter; " I was obleeged to force
her awa. I couldna see her workin and toilin by nicht and
by day, a' for my comfort and convenience^ and to the pre-
judice o' her ain health. It's a pairt o' oor trade to beat oor
leather, ye maun ken, Mrs Jean. Mony a day she wrought
at that, puir thing. I hae seen the very sweat rinnin doun
her bonny brow at it. I couldna witness sae muckle hard
labour without feelin ; an' often has the tear trickled doun
my cheeks to see the curious ways o' woman's lore. Ye
are true creatures, Jean. What could we do withoot ye ?"

' ' No weel, Peter," answered the flattered dame ; " an' I'm
just afraid ye may feel eerie when Robina's awa, for want
o' that braw, lichtsome, rattlin manner o' hers. She was
the woman to mak a man merry. Wha could resist the
fun o' her daffin, as she slapped him on the back in the free
and easy way she sae aften did to ye ? There's ne'er anither
woman in Selkirk wha took sae muckle pains wi' her hus-
band as Robina Penilheugh did wi' you."

" Ye're a sensible woman, Mrs Currie," said Peter, " as
your deceased husband was a maist worthy man. Though
a barber, nae man ever fand a hair i' his neck."

" That's true," replied Mrs Currie ; "he was as like
yersel, Peter, as twa honest men, wi' guid wives, can be
to ane anither. A weel-wived husband is aye meek an'
sleek. The marks o' the kame are aye fand in his hair,
and wasna wantin in mine, though cuttin and kamin hair
Avas his honourable profession. Whan does Robina come
back frae the saut water?"

" When she has aneuch o't," replied the satisfied Peter.

The two friends bade each other good day. Peter con-
tinued his rounds, to save his honour, by circulating the
story of his wife having gone to bathing quarters ; and Mrs
Currie flew to tell a neighbour she saw waiting for her, that
Mrs Penilheugh had eloped with grenadier Sinclair.

The news had very generally got wind. An elopement
js that kind of occurrence which, in a small town, is con-
sidered of that sprightly, humorous kind which stirs the
lazy blood of villagers, and gives them new life. The timid
Penilheugh had, therefore, good cause to beat up for re-
cruits to his fame ; but even his own self-love could not
blindhim altogether to the fact, thathis honour had suffered —
first, by the treatment his wife had been in the habit of
giving him ; and, secondly, by this unlawful affection she
had adopted for a man of war All his lies, he feared,
could not save him from the effects of public shame. He
saw the people pointing at him as he passed, and felt the
agony of that deplorable condition when a man of honour
experiences the first attack upon his virgin fame. He told
his griefs to a friend, who informed him that his suspicions
were unfounded, and explained away the circumstance of
the pointed fingers, by stating that the inhabitants of Sel-
kirk were in the habit of pointing to him as he passed,
on which occasions they generally applied to him the appel-
lation of honest Peter Penilheugh.

This explanation, to a certain extent, calmed Peter's
apprehensions ; but enough of solicitude was left to induce
a wish, on the part of this extraordinary votary of public
fame, to advance himself in the estimation of good men, by
taking part in the public affairs of the time ; with a view,
first, of saving his character from the effects of the catas-
trophe he had already experienced ; and, secondly, of laying
the foundation of amore imperishable character in the history
of his country. News had arrived of the rising in the north
in favour of the Pretender, and a better opportunity could
not have occurred for a person of spirit, who had been in
the shade, redeeming himself in the estimation of the
world, and probably making his fortune.

A number of the inhabitants of Selkirk were inclined to
engage in the cause of the young Prince ; and Peter Penil-
heugh asked himself the question why he should not strive
for the crown of glory as well as others. The desire of
being considered a person of public spirit fired him with
an ardour which outran his courage. In his wish to be
considered a warrior, he forgot he was a coward ; or rather
he endeavoured to satisfy himself that the man who
trembled under the hands of a woman was not necessarily
destitute of the spirit necessary to fight one of his own sex.
Indeed, he satisfied himself that the quiet way in which he
had received Robina's bastinadoing — though some liver-
hearted caitives might call it cowardice — ought truly to be
denominated courage. There was exemplified in it the
power of suffering — a true element of a courageous charac-
ter; and that suffering was endured, not, as some might
say, from a fear of exposure, but only to gratify a faithful
wife.

Peter's new ardour pushed him forward among the young
men who were preparing to join the Pretender. They had
placed themselves under the charge of a person of undoubt-
ed courage, named Adam Turnbull — a young man, who had
for some time been in the army — and were in the habit of
secretly going through their exercises on a green near the
town. Peter was one of them, and was observed to go
through the forms with great spirit. On the day previous
to their departure, he suddenly stood forth from the ranks,
and addressed his fellow-soldiers in the following eloquent
strain : —

" Ye gallant lads o' Selkirk, ken ye for what ye are
aboot to fecht ? If ye are inflamed by the same spirit that
warms my bosom and maks my bluid circulate through
my veins, ye canna be ignorant o' the great and michty
object for which ye are aboot to draw the sword o' ycr
strength, and spill the bluid o' the best o' Selkirk's sons.
It's no for ae king mair than anither king — it's no for
Charlie mair than for Geordie — it's no for Popery mair
than for Protestantism — it's no for riches mair than for
eneugh; — it's for honour, for fame, for glory, for stautus : —
that's what it's for ; and can there be a higher object o' a
brave man's ambition ? If there's ane amang ye wba doesna
feel the force o' a guid repute — wha doesna appreciate the
pleasures o' fame — whase heart doesna boil wi' the thocht
o' being weel spoken o' — that man's no fit to fecht in oor
cause. The love o' stautus, my companions, is the source
o' a' our energies, frae him wha slips his hand o'er the
smooth sole o' a weel-made shoe, and mutters to himsel, in
his hich and legitimate pride, Wha could touch that ? to
him wha penned the loftiest apic, and grat to hear (for he
was blind) its elevated sentiments read to him by his
dochter. I am no ashamed to say that Peter Penilheugh
is the man wha would risk his life for that inestimable
jewel ; and, if ye are a* o' the same way o' thinking, Prince
Charlie winna hae a set o' braver lads under his banner."

This rhapsody was received with great cheering, and
Peter was set down, among the weaker part of the inhabit-
ants, as a man of courage. Those who knew him had a
very different opinion of him ; but all conspired in flatter-

68

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

ipg him — some because they thought he had some or the
qualities he wished attributed to him, and others because
they procured, from his looks of self-complacency, consider-
able amusement. He got himself arrayed in regimentals ;
and, as he strutted about talking to the inhabitants of the
virtues of a good citizen, he sometimes ventured on the
remark, that a man of his size would make a better soldier
than a grenadier. He, of course, did not wish it to be
understood that he made any allusion to the particular
grenadier who had made off with his shoes, but merely to
the race of Anak generally, which he held in no estimation
for their capabilities of war, however they might be prized
by the fair sex, who were no true judges of the character of
a proper man.

The Selkirk party accordingly joined the Prince. In the
first skirmish, Peter Penilheugh's courage departed from
him ; and, having fairly turned his back for a dastardly
flight, one of his companions pursued him, and, with a cut
of a sabre, brought him to the earth. The wound could
have no effect in inducing Peter to return. Indeed, it had,
as might have been expected, rather a different effect, as he
learned from it some experience of his own cowardice — a
quality which the blows of Robina had not been sufficient
to elicit, so as to be observable by himself. Even, however,
if he had been willing, he could not have again joined the
ranks ; for it was found necessary to amputate the limb — an
operation which confined him in a small house, near the
borders of England, for many months.

When sufficiently recovered to be able to go out, the dis-
membered hero found it necessary for him to secret himself
from the reach of the long arm of public authority, raised in
vindication of the rights of a monarchy which ought to have
been deemed entitled to the benefit of a proscription. A
hue and cry was raised against the Jacobites ; and it is well
known to what shifts the poor deluded victims of false hopes
were forced to betake themselves in escaping from their
sanguinary pursuers. The Prince himself, under the soft
disguise of female apparel, was comparatively well provided
for when compared with some of his adherents. The poor
man who filled with his body the churn, for eight days, in
the neighbourhood of Arbroath ; he who lay for six days in
a coffin, in a house in the Nethergate of Dundee ; he who
lay coiled up in a brewer's vat, with a lid upon it, in the
Canongate of Edinburgh ; and he who was stretched for a
month between two mattrasses, in a house in the suburbs of
Perth — were not consoled by being made the subject of a
single song, while their Prince's sufferings were chanted in
a hundred strains.

The terror of Peter Penilheugh may be very easily con-
ceived, when it is known that the men who had recourse to
these extraordinary modes of secrecy were, in fact, brave
spirits reduced to the greatest distress. But Peter excelled
them all in his plan of escape. He was mutilated by the
wound he had received, and he lost one of his eyes when he
fell in his flight from the field of battle. He could scarcely,
therefore,berecognisedbythepeople who formerly knew him;
und having, in a great degree, lost his reputation — which was
ihe most valuable jewel he possessed on earth — he had no
wish to be recognised by his old friends. He had heard it
reported that he Avas dead, and an idea struck him — worthy
of his superior genius — to allow the opinion to prevail, and
even favour it ; whereby, and by having recourse to a new
name in another town, and a new reputation, he would get
quit of the effects of the outlawry that was against him,
and the shame that awaited him in his native town, where
his wife's bad conduct and his own cowardice were now, no
doubt, quite current. His reputation being dead, it was
better that he should be dead also. He, therefore, sat
down, and, in a feigned hand, and under a false signature,
wrote to the Provost of Selkirk, informing him that that
honest, worthy citizen. Peter Penilheugh, was dead, and

requesting him to take charge of his effects for the person
who would appear and claim them.

This letter was received by the Provost, and the contents
of it circulated throughout the town. No doubt was
entertained in any quarter that Peter Penilheugh was dead ;
and the proverb, of Fifean origin, that it is better to be
married in Fife than to die in Fife, was found to be appli-
cable to Selkirk ; for the true character of Peter was very
freely brought out by his friends, and not much to the
credit of either him or his reputation.

In the meantime, while civiliter dead in Selkirk, Peter
repaired to Melrose, where, under the name of Andrew
Haggerstone, he practised his trade, and began to lay a new
foundation for a character of repute, that would be alike
independent of the destructive energies of a wife, as of the
witnesses of his cowardice when he ran from the fight. In
order to disguise himself more effectually than had been
already done by the knife of the surgeon and the stone that
knocked out his eye, he shaved his whiskers, and wore a
wig of a different colour, clapping a large black patch over
the untenanted site of his lost orb, changing the cut of his
clothes and the tones of his voice, and leaving his timber
support to please itself in constituting a difference of walk.
In this disguise, it was quite impossible to recognise old
Penilheugh. He himself found every satisfaction in it,
with the exception of a difficulty he experienced in found-
ing a reputation against the vulgar prejudices that arose
out of his tinkler-like aspect. He found that very few
were inclined to respect a modern Vulcan ; and, for a long
time, his endeavours were unequal to the task of making
his acquaintances believe that respectability could attach to
a fragment of a man, who had lost an eye and a leg, and
had little of a seemly character in the remainder.

Although the fragment of Peter's body was thus in Mel-
rose, his mind remained in Selkirk. He found that, in
place of securing anything like a respectable status where he
was, the people would scarcely trust him with their shoes to
cobble ; and, in a very short time, he was in want of the
means of subsistence. The parts of his body he had lost, had
terrified away the people who might have contributed to his
support ; while, unfortunately, the fragment that remained
required as much sustenance to support it as his whole
previous corporation. His eye was, accordingly, turned to
the place of his birth, where he still retained some pro-
perty— a small house and some furniture — which he had
not devised any good scheme for securing. He recollected
with pain the palmy state he enjoyed in that comfortable
town — when he, as " a man o' stautus," strutted along its
streets, a respected and favoured citizen, receiving the salut-
ation of this person and the recognition of that, and en-
joying the sunshine of a good estimation — and contrasted
these advantages with the miserable and despised hobble of
a dead-alive fragment of what he was, worshipping a
haughty neighbourhood for a smile of regard and a pair of
shoes to mend, and receiving often nothing but a look of
contempt, or, what was worse, a grin of affected sympathy.

In order to advance him in the estimation of the citizens
of Melrose, he published a handbill, importing that he
mended soles on a new principle, and intimating slily that
all the other cobblers in the town were a set of black-
guards, who used rotten leather and weak thread, with a
view to create trade by undermining the footing of the
lieges, and making them repair for an expensive consola-
tion to the headquarters of roguery. This attempt to raise
himself at the expense of his neighbours, was attended with
disastrous effects. The cobblers, waxing great and wroth
at the proud monoculus who had come among them from
the moon, with a view to supplant them in the estimation
of the public, assembled together for the purpose of taking
revenge on the leather of the traducer. Peter, however,
got intimation of the intended attack ; and, cursing Melrose

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

as a place where a good reputation could not be founded, in
consequence of the envy of a set of low vagabonds, he took
up his stick, leaving his awl in his tool-box, and took the
road to Selkirk, to ascertain what was done with his pro-
perty, and whether the officers of the Crown had given up
all hopes of finding him alive.

As he entered his birth-place — the fountain and the grave
of all his pleasures, where he had wed and lost his Robina,
earned and thrown away an excellent character, made and
resigned a handsome competency — he wept; but he had
too much manliness left to allow a weak feminine tear to
stick in the only eye he had left to light him through life ;
so, wiping it away, he directed his steps to what is called
the cross, or middle of the town, where he used to resort
after finishing his shoes, to hear the news of the town, and
enjoy the advantages of a good reputation and unsullied
character, in the respect which was always shewn him by
those, at least, who knew his weakness, and who, by Peter's
self-adulation, were magnified into the public. Nobody
knew him. He looked at his old friends ; they slunk
away from him. He had the appearance of a gaberlunzie;
and one of them offered him a penny. The offering was
gall and vinegar to the victim of public opinion. He
turned away his face; and, directing his steps to old Walter
Gibson's, he went in and asked him if he knew where one
Peter Penilheugh lived, or if he did live in Selkirk.

Having thrown this question in at the door, he stood to
receive his answer, expecting that Walter would come out
the moment he heard the sweet name of his old, honoured
friend. Walter did come out.

" The auld wretch is dead monya lang day syne,"answered
Walter, captiously. " He didna deserve to leeve. His con-
ceit, his horns, his military prowess, his love o' false soles, his
lees, his ugly face, lie a' snug aneuch in the kirkyard o*
Alnwick."

" Did he leave a wife ?" inquired Peter.

" 'Deed did he," answered AValker, " and a fine quean
die is. She used to tan him nicely, the auld rascal ; and
wha could blame her ? She is a bonny quean, and he was
an ill-favoured goat, wha never deserved sic a companion.
But she treated him weel ; for she leathered him to his
heart's contentment every day, and then went and took a
walk wi* some o' her wiselike freends, for the sake o' recrea-
tion. At last, sick o' the auld brock, and wearied to death
wi' strappin him, she eloped wi' a fine-lookin grenadier o'
the name o' Sinclair ; and the puir horned creature thocht
he couldna do better than use his armed head against the
reignin King. But horns are nae signs o' courage — the

, it was just the grenad
him rin, followed him, cut his hamstrings, and left him to
blaw oot his useless breath in the heart o' a cloud o' mist."

" Where is his wife, now ?" inquired the nearly speechless
Peter.

" She and her husband Sinclair," replied the other, " are
livin in the wretch's hoose doun the way there. She
claimed it for her terce, no bein within the bounds ; and
the Shirra has gien her't for her life. She has a' his bit
sticks o' furniture, too."

" Did nae ither body claim his hoose ?" asked Peter.

" Ou, ay, a nephew o' the useless cratur's claimed it ; but
the Shirra gae it to the widow. I dinna ken the law, and I
dinna care for't."

" Ye dinna seem to hae liked auld Peter," said his
equivalent.

" Indeed I didna," replied Walter. " He had owre
muckle conceit. He thocht himsel a man o' repute, puir
thing, though the hail toun lauched at him. We a' praised
him to his face, nae doot, but it was only for fun ; for we
liked to enjoy the keckle o' his lauch when he was tauld o'

his reputation. I had ither reasons for no likin him. The
cratur wasna honest. He cheated me like a blackleg, giein
me rotten leather for my soles, and seal's-skin for my uppers
— and then his prices were beyond a' calculation."

With a sorrowful heart, Peter hobbled away to another
quarter of the town, to try if his character was any better in
that direction. Knocking at Widow Curries door, he
inquired if Peter Penilheugh still lived in Selkirk, and
where.

" Hoot, man !" ejaculated the widow, as she ran to the
door — " that silly carle's dead langsyne ; but ye'll get his
wife, wha is married to George Sinclair, livin in his hoose."

" Ay, ay — is he dead ?" said Peter, mournfully. " I kent
him brawly mysel— he wasna sae ill as he's ca'ed noo, after
he's dead. There were mony guid points aboot him. His
repute was fair an' honourable while he lived, an' it's no fair
to speak ill o' the dead."

^ I hae nae great reason to speak ill o' the puir body,"
said the widow, ' ' neither did I intend to do sic an ungratefu
office ; but I canna stand by an' hear a white-livered cuckold
caitiff praised for qualities he didna possess. Whar, think
ye, lay the repute he made sae muckle wark aboot when he
was on earth ? Only in the fleechin an' fun o' the wags o'
Selkirk, wha liked to see the auld smaik smirkin owre the
notion o' his honour, o' whilk he had nae mair than ony auld
jevel wha ever cheated the wuddy. But, maybe, ye're a
freend o' his ? — I shouldna be sae free wi' strangers."

" I'm sure naebody can say he didna leeve happy wi' his
wife," said Peter, wishing to avoid her question, and to feel
her pulse on this delicate point.

" Think ye sae, man ?" said the widow — " ye'll better
ask Robina hersel. She'll no be sae mealy -moothed as I am.
Mony a day she strapped him wi' his ain leather ; but the
cratur's fear prevented him frae complainin ; an' he tauld
everybody that she liked him, when he should hae said that
she licked him. He was richt cheap o' his paiks ; for they
say he looked after ither women, an' I can even say that the
auld goat cast mony a sheep's ee at mysel. But the warst
faut o' the cratur was his dishonesty — for ye never got
change frae him but it wanted a plack ; an' the liggs he
tauld to mak folk believe he was a man o' repute, were oot
o' a' character."

" Do a' the folk o' Selkirk think sae ill o' my auld freen
as ye do ?" asked the despairing Peter.

" 'Deed do they," answered the widow — " an' waur.
They were muckle offended wi' his flicht frae the field o'
battle. It was that unfortunate affair that brocht up a'
his fauts. Maybe, if he had dee'd gaum, they micht hae for-
gotten his fauts, and buried them wi' his body ; but we
wha bear the honour o' bein the bravest o' the Borderers,
canna endure cowardice."

Peter bade the widow good night, and went sorrowfully
through the town, endeavouring to find if these statements
of him were general. He found they were. Everybody
had something to say against him. He was a thief, a liar,
a swindler, a coward. Many things were said which had
no foundation in truth. The people seemed angry at his
cowardice, because, as they said, it sullied the fame they
acquired at the battle of Flodden. It would even seem
that his effigy had been burnt when the news of his flight
arrived in the town ; and there could be little doubt that
the rancour that prevailed against him had its origin in
that proceeding.

This extraordinary living example of the old adage
applicable to eavesdroppers, sat down on a dike at the end
of the town, to commune with himself on his own sorrows.
He had intended, if he found the people still^etained
grateful sense of his reputation, and knew nothing of th<
story of the flight, to come back to life again, and receive,
in the town where he was beloved, the congenial effects ol
that sympathy which his supposed death would un:loubt<

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

excite. He bad figured himself walking along the town, some
fine morning — redivivus — the same clean, honest-looking,
respectable citizen he used to be ; and saw, in his imagina-
tion, the people flying from all quarters to get a shake of
the hand of the lamented dead-alive, and pouring in upon
his delighted ears their hearty congratulations. " What an
increase of reputation !" he had ejaculated. A deaconship
would be the consequence ; next, the office of convener
would be put upon him, and the shining robe of the repre-
sentative of Brydone was already flowing from his shoul-
ders.

Where were all these hopes now ? The top of an old
dike was his seat ; he had no money to procure a bed ;
he was hungry ; and, above all, he was dishonoured. The
reputation he had so long wrought and fought for, was
gone. Mutilated in body, with one melancholy lack-lustre
orb sticking lonely in his forehead ; his immortal part de-
stroyed, both in his prior life and in the present, in Sel-
kirk and in Melrose — what remained for him but a rope ?
Even that he knew not where to find. Pope's recommend-
ation was to him nugatory ; for where was the "penny?"
He had not even the means of death, far less those of life.

His situation was deplorable; and his utter destitution
suggested the idea of still assuming his former life and cha-
racter, (his shape he could not.) and vindicating his right
to his little house and chattels. But how was this to be
done ? Who would believe that he was Peter Penilheugh ?
"Would not Robina and her husband murder him if he en-
deavoured to deprive them of their property? But, above
all, how could he appear in Selkirk, to claim his effects —
in that place where his only consolation, his only pride,
his exultation, his joy, was to be considered respectable and
beloved — to stand up an object of scorn and contempt on the
spot where he had been burnt in effigy, and assert a right
to effects which had been quietly possessed by others for a
length of time ? The thought was maddening ; he could
not stand it. This resource was abandoned in despair.

As he sat in this deplorable plight, the provost of Selkirk
passed him, and threw him a penny. Peter's pride would
not allow him to take it up. " I'm no a beggar, sir," said
he.

" You are perhaps a gentleman," said the provost, pick-
ing up his gratuity.

rt No," said Peter ; " but I was ance a person o' reputa-
tion : and, though poor, I canna forget my honour."

" Are you going into Selkirk ?" inquired the provost, as
he was? proceedingt

" Yes," answered Peter" : " an' I wish to ken if there's
ane Peter Penilheugh lives there ?"

" I wish there was njw such a person," answered the
provost — " I could communicate good tidings to him ; but
he is dead."

As the provost said these words, he had got to some dis-
tance. Peter started to his foot, and hobbled after him.
The provost thought he had changed his mind about the
gratuity, and cried out to him that he need not follow him,
as he never offered a penny twice to anybody.

" It's no the penny I'm wantin, yer Honour," said Peter.
"I want to ken the guid tidings ye hae for Peter Penilheugh,
wha was a freen o' mine ; an' maybe I may hae reason to
say that what a freen gets is no lost."

" The matter is to me no secret," said the provost. tf I
am merely acting in my capacity of provost of Selkirk, and
have no interest in the affair either one way or other. If
you are a friend of Peter's, you have a right to the com-
munication, that you may, if you have any title, put
forward your claim, and be a competitor along with the
rest. I this day got a letter communicating to me the
intelligence that old Pendriech of Pirnie, a large property
in the neighbourhood, is dead, and, upon examination, it
has been Ibund that Peter Penilheugh's mother was the

great-great-grandniece of his forbear, who acquired the
property ; and her son, Peter, if he had been alive, would
have been the heir-at-law. He being dead, some difficulty
will be experienced, as he left no heirs, and the line of
descent will take a new direction. What relationship do
you stand in to Peter ?"

" I'm no a'thegither quite sure, your Honour," answered
Peter ; " but I'll count my kin i' the coorse o' the nicht,
and let your Honour ken the morn. I hae naething i' the
meantime to get a bed wi' ; and if yer Honour would hae
the guidness to lend me a shilling, ye can keep it aff the

first year's rents o' Pirnie, when Peter 1 mean, yet

Honour, that I will repay you honestly."

The provost gave Peter the shilling, and they parted,
This new situation of affairs opened up another view of the
economy of life to the aspirant for reputation. He sauntered
gently into the town, musing, as he went, upon the ques-
tion whether he ought to brave the scorn of the world he
had left for the sake of the estate of Pirnie, a property
worth two thousand pounds a-year. The question may
appear strange to ordinary people — it did not appear strange
to Peter Penilheugh, because he was an extraordinary
individual. He did not prize wealth so much as fair fame ;
and, having lost the one, should he, for the sake of the
other, endure the misery of knowing that he was, while
living in the midst of the world, an object of scorn and
ridicule to those in whose eyes every energy of his exist-
ence had been exerted to appear respectable. The question
undoubtedly had subtlety in it; and Peter thought it might
be as well to sleep upon it.

As he went about seeking for a bed, he saw various
clusters of his old cronies standing about the street. He
felt great curiosity to ascertain what they were saying. He
suspected their conversation was all about him, as the
provost had, before he left the town, no doubt dropt enough
to set them all a-cackling for hours together. Taking a
sweep, with his timber leg on the starboard, he came as
near them as a man in doubt whether to go forward or take
a turn, could be supposed to do. He found his suspicions
justified. All the coteries had him, his death, character,
and loss of Pirnie, through hands. He could not learn exactly
the particulars of their discourse ; but he heard them all
laughing occasionally, and mixing up his name in the most
irreverent manner with their merriment. This incensed
him to an extent he had never before experienced, and laid
the foundation of a radical change in his sentiments, which
produced an effect upon every subsequent feature of his
life.

The pride of riches had been silently yet surely making
inroads upon Peter's mind for several hours. He was
entirely unaware of it himself; and it was only in some of
its remote effects that it could have been discernible. The
first effect of it was to produce a high sense of indignation,
when he heard himself laughed at. The recollection of the
abuse he had heard heaped upon him by Walter Gibson,
and Widow Currie, and many others, tended to the same
result. This was the first stone of reformation of his
character. It gave rise to a superstructure of cogitation,
which went on all night when he was in his bed ; for he
could procure but little sleep.

" What, after a', is the thing I have a' my life been
rinnin after ?" was the first fruits of his amendment. " Is
it no a mere bubble? Did it ever put a penny in my pouch
or a bit o' bread in my mouth ? Is it no a mere vapour
blawn by people wha use their am lungs, and hae a richt
to blaw as they like, if they should blaw awa no only yer
character, but your means o' subsistence ? This nicht has
opened my een — I hae stood on the street whar I thocbt
I was honoured, and heard the very folk wha formerly
praised me, rin me doun the brae o' reputation's quickest
descent, and tell o' me stories that never had ony ex-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

istence but in their black, venomous hearts. When an'
what did ever I steal ? What woman did ever I look at
wi' an unlawfu ee ? Wha did I cheat? and hoo mony
placks did ever I retain frae the just amount o' a change o'
copper ? Thae things are a' lees ; and dootless a thoosand
rnair hae been said o' me by the coteries wha were lauchin
at me this nicht in the streets. Whar, then, can the faith
o' man lie, wha builds his hopes o' happiness on the tongues
o' men ? He may as weel seek his meat frae the poisoned
tongue o' the adder, or look for milk to his parritch frae
the dairy on the taid's back. Owre, owre late do I see my
error ; but there may even yet be time for reformation —
ay, there may be time for revenge."

The word revenge was quivering on Peter's tongue
when he fell asleep in the morning, after a whole night's
cogitation. When he woke, he was muttering revenge;
and the process of reasoning by which he arrived at a word
lie had scarcely ever before uttered with any of the feeling
it represents, rushed upon his mind. He rose and dressed
himself, and went straight to the house of the provost. As
he entered, he took off his patch and wig, and was put into
a room to wait for his Honour, who was at breakfast. The
door opened, and the first burgess entered.

" Peter Penilheugh, yer Honour," said Peter, bowing,
with his hat in his hand.

" Who ?" ejaculated the provost, staring at him in evi-
dent amazement.

•( Peter Penilheugh, shoemaker in Selkirk, yer Honour,"
repeated Peter — " he wha was dead and is come alive
again — wha was lost and is found — wha was poor and is
or will be Laird o' Pirnie."

The provost surveyed attentively the apparition. It
was, indeed, the very Peter Penilheugh. He knew him
at once ; and nothing more was required than to get
from Peter an account of his death, and the means by
which he had become resuscitated. All this Peter gave
with much good-will and some humour. He told the
provost he had been the slave of public opinion ; it was
the chains of that slavery that had killed him, and he only
felt life again when they were thrown from him.

The business was now the next point. There could be
no doubt of Peter's propinquity ; because old Pendriech had
left written evidence of the fact. A lawyer was called in,
who went home and wrote out a power of attorney for him
to act in getting Peter served heir and put in possession of
the property. He was recommended, in the meantime, to
retire to Edinburgh for a little, that he might be out of the
sight of the people of Selkirk, whom he now heartily hated.
The attorney advanced him £50, a larger sum than he had
ever fingered in his life ; and, going privately out of the
town, he mounted a gig, which the provost sent to receive
him, and drove off, in great state and high spirits, to the
metropolis of the kingdom.

The service having been concluded, Peter was next in-
ducted into the property. The mansion house, which was
large and spacious, was fitted up for his reception ; as he
intended, he said, to live as suited himself, regardless of the
opinion of the public. He took possession of it, and, at
the same time, got a handsome carriage built for him, which,
he said, the loss of his leg rendered indispensable to him,
After being comfortably settled, he next thought of the
best way of taking his revenge on his old friends of Selkirk.
In forming this resolution, he acted on the soundest principle
of the law of retaliation — viz., that the best and completes!
revenge is forgiveness and kindness.

He, accordingly, soon issued cards o-f invitation to dinner
to a great number of his old friends, both male and female.
Among these were Walter Gibson, Mrs Currie, and all
those he had spoken to on the eventful night when he
heard himself so much abused by those in whose eyes he
thought he stood highest. There were only two of his old

friends he left out. These were his wife, whom he could
not invite, seeing he intended to divorce her, and her
husband, George Sinclair, the grenadier, who had injured
him more deeply than by running away with his shoes or
traducing his character.

All the persons invited attended. Walter Gibson, as an
old friend, was at the foot of the table, and Mrs Currie
occupied a prominent part, being no other than mistress
of the ceremonies in the drawing-room.
_ After dinner was finished, and the wine had begun to
circulate, Peter was called upon, by Walter Gibson, to give
them an account of his extraordinary disappearance, death,
funeral, and resurrection.

" My life," began Peter, " has been a very curious ane ;
and this is no the least curious part o't — even this convoca-
tion o' my auld freends and weel-wishers. It was late in
life before I learned what micht be ca'ed the very first
lesson ; for I never thought that a man may think himsel
a respectable member o' society, and yet be nae in air
esteemed than an auld grimalkin. Mony a day, as is weel
kenned to you, I wrocht to establish a character ; and a'
my efforts were scarcely able to make up for the injuries
my reputation sustained by the misdemeanours o' Robina
Harden, my wife. But still I persevered; and, amidst
poverty, and ill health, and domestic broils, I still kept in
my ee, as the bright north star o' my houp and ambition,
the construction, edification, and support o' an unblemished
repute among my fellow-citizens. I thocht I had attained
my darling object ; and wished to add to my honest
reputation, a character for valour. There I was wrang ; I
had nae command owre my ain heart. I ran frae the
field o' fecht. I was pursued, wounded, and outlawed.
To escape my shame and King George's messengers, I re-
signed my life, by a letter I sent to our guid provost, and
began a new state o' existence in Melrose. I tried there,
too, to build up a character; but I failed — and then I
visited again my native toun. I thocht it was due to my
auld freens to ca' upon them. Some o' you may recollect
my visit : I asked ye aboot Peter Penilheugh — if he was
dead or alive. I got my answer — I got also my character.
My een were at last opened. I found that, while I was
striving to be guid, and to deserve a guid reputation, the
public were busy hatching lies against me ; sae that what I
gained at ae end o' the string, I lost at the ither. I am
noo satisfied there's little truth i' the warld ; and that he
who binds himsel to the wheels o' public opinion, maun
resign his rest and his happiness, and run a risk o' bein
crushed to death in the end. Some o' ye may recollect
what ye said o' me. I think I was, at least, a leear, a
thief, a cheat, an' a follower o' unlawfu loves. That nane
o' thae I ever was, I believe ye a' ken just as weel as I do.
That I had weaknesses aboot me I admit; but they a'
arose oot o' my silly vanity o' thinkin I could regulate the
tongues o' men an' women. I micht as weel hae tried to
stop the wheels o' a' the water-mills frae the Mull o' Gallo-
way to John-o'-Groat's. Noo, my freens, alloo me to
say, I forgie ye, upon this ae condition, that ye drink to the
toast I'm aboot to propose ; and, when that is dune, we
winna again recur to things past, but resign oorsels to the
effect o' this braw wine, and mak oorsels as happy as that
and guid company can mak us. My toast is, freens, ' A
fig for public opinion, and may we a' rely on the faithfu
responses o' a guid conscience 1' "

The toast was drunk with great applause, even by those
who Avere conscious of being pointed at by Peter's strange
speech. The party sat to a late hour, and made the roof-
tree o' Pirnie ring with the praises of Peter Penilheugh.

Peter subsequently divorced Robina, who, having been
obliged to give up the property she had taken possession of,
lost the affections of her lover, became dissipated, and died,
affording an example of the every-day effects of vice. If

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

she had treated her husband well, she might hare lived,
and have been called Mrs Penilheugh of Pirnie.

From this period of Peter's life, there arises the elucida-
tion of another moral : that which a man shews he despises,
is generally, by the contradictory spirit of mankind, placed
within his power ; while that which he struggles and fights
for, and exhibits a great anxiety to attain, is pertinaciously
kept from him. This fact in human nature might be traced
to deep sources ; but, moralists though we are, we cannot
think of interfering with the progress of our hero's career,
by officious and sometimes unpalatable moralizing reflec-
tions, which every man thinks himself fit for, and which
most men carry about with them, like an old surtout, to
conceal the holes in the riddled toga of their honesty.

Peter was resolved that this dinner should be the last
occasion on which he would trouble himself about man-
kind— not that he was to turn a Timon of Athens — a
mere misanthrope — the victim of hurt pride; but simply
that he was resolved to produce that respect by sheer
contempt, which he had formerly prayed for and solicited
as a gift of inestimable value. He had become versant
in human nature, in the manner of the horse's cunning
knowledge of a bad and cruel horseman — by being ridden
upon ; and, like the noble object of the simile, he was
resolute in doing that which he felt himself able to do —
to throw his rider, and leave him to praise the free steed
whose spirit disdained the curb of the unworthy and inex-
perienced master.

The first thing that a man who is to despise the world
ought to do, is to defend himself by a good wife. Acting
upon this noble resolution, Mr Penilheugh (for, having no
right to use familiarities with the great, we must renounce
the familiar " Peter") wooed and won the daughter of a
neighbouring laird, who (maugre the lost eye and amput-
ated limb) saw in the broad acres of Pirnie the capabilities
of affording a jointure without mutilation. She had the
merit of being the very opposite of Robina — meek, soft,
conciliating, and affectionate ; and, what her husband
triumphed at, there existed not the slightest difficulty on
his part to defend her reputation for fidelity and kindness ;
for the good reasons — first, that she required no de-
fence ; and, secondly, that, if she had, he would not have
been at the trouble to have recourse to the very best mode
of destroying both his character and her own.

They lived together happily, and became highly respect-
ed. Mr Penilheugh, to gratify his peculiar humour, some-
times visited Selkirk, and, leaving his equipage at the door
of the inn, walked, with as much majesty as his mutilated
body could exhibit, along the streets — his wife hanging on
his arm, and his eye occupied in such a way as, without
shewing any wish, on his part, to cut old friends, yet served
to tell very plainly that he could take their moral measure as
correctly as he did the dimensions of the foot of the man-
at-arms who ran away with his shoes, or of that of many
of the citizens, who never paid him, but who yet abused
him. Meanwhile, however, he did the town much good ;
for he subscribed munificently to its charitable institutions,
and supported many a poor beggar, who knew the way to
Pirnie better than to the church.

The effects of all this were soon apparent. The greatness
of mind of Mr Penilheugh of Pirnie was becoming evident
to the inhabitants of Selkirk. The reverse of the maxim,
that familiarity produces contempt, awarded to him the
meed of respect he seemed to disregard. On the next occa-
sion of a vacancy in the Provostship, it was suggested, and
approved of by all the citizens, that the Laird of Pirnie
should be presented with an humble requisition to take upon
himself that honour. The intermediate steps of his pro-
gress to the civic chair were to be — by some means un-
known to us, but quite in the power of the inhabitants —
overleaped, or, at least, simulatively achieved ; and every •

thing was cut and dry for the installation. A deputation
of the chief citizens was appointed to wait on the " great
man," and present the address to him ; and Walter Gib-
son volunteered to make the speech. They arrived at
Pirnie House in high spirits, and no doubt was entertained
of the success of their schemes. They were received with
becoming dignity ; and the spokesman began —

" Since ever the memorable days of the renowned Bry-
done. Provost o' oor guid toun," began the deputy, i( it has
been the pride o' Selkirk to put into her civic chair
individuals worthy o' succeedin that great burgal legis-
lator and undaunted warrior." QMr Penilheugh's eye became
clouded at this unfortunate allusion, suggesting the
contrast of his flight and Brydone's valour.] We, o' the
present day, are anxious to keep up the honour o' oor
native toun, and conceive that the lustre o' the name
o' Penilheugh o' Pirnie, transcending, as it unquestionably,
indubitably, and clearly does, that o' the greatest o ' oor
civic rulers, may reflect some light even on the blazoned
arms o' oor brave burgh. We have, therefore, come to the
determination, the resolution, and the purpose o' askin
yer Honour to vouchsafe to us your consent to adorn oor
toun, to purify oor burgh legislation, to extend its power,
to benefit its citizens, and — and so forth — hem — hem — by
becoming oor provost."

This speech, which, it will be seen, was just beginning,
towards its termination, to escape the memory of the
speaker, was heard by Mr Penilheugh in solemn silence.

" Messrs Deputies o' the Inhabitants o' Selkirk," began
the dignified responder, "there was a time when I
aspired to the great office you have noo put within my
pooer; but, somehoo or ither, there existed nae reci-
procity o' sentiment on that subject between me and
your worthy citizens, wha wouldna recognise my being
made even box-master o' my ain tred — sayin, what I
canna weel forget, that a man wha was licked by his
wife wasna fitted for being a box- master. But that time
has passed ; and luckily there has gane wi't that desire o'
ambition that ance burned in my veins. The tables are,
in fact, turned. I asked what was denied me, and now
you ask what is in a minute or twa to be denied you. I
dinna say, however, that the honour I am about to reject
is just o' the same dimensions as that whilk your inhabit-
ants rejected frae me ; because I conceive that comparisons
are odious. But, at same time, I wish the thing to be re-
corded in your answer ; so that the circumstance may appear
in the burgh books, that I mas in fact rejected by your in-
habitants when I wanted to begin to climb to the civic
chair ; and my reason for this is, that it may also appear
that I now reject this honour, no because you formerly
rejected me, but simply because I noo care nae mair for
honour and stautus, than I do for the wag o' the supple
tongues on whilk they baith hae their kittle seat. I beg
leave, therefore, to decline this honour you have now offered
to me — wishing you, at same time, " to understand that
I will ever be the friend o' your toon, whose beggars,
when they come to Pirnie, will never want a better meal
than I ever, in my necessities, got frae your townsmen."

The deputies _ bowed as gracefully as they could, and
retired. This rejection was considered to be couched in very
equivocal terms ; but, notwithstanding, just in proportion
to Mr Penilheugh's contempt o' public opinion, his honour
and fame increased. He lived to a long age, and left heirs,
who acted upon the moral maxim he bequeathed to them
on his deathbed — never to court popular applause.

WILSON'S

, flrratrttfonarg, an* 3Emasm«tfl»*

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE CURATE OF GOVAN

Do any of our east or south country readers know any-
thing of the little village of Govan, within about two miles
or so of. Glasgow ? If they do, they will acknowledge, we
daresay, that it is one of the most prettily-situated little
hamlets that may he seen. We mean, however, solely thai
portion of it which stands on the banks of the Clyde. On
a summer evening, when the tide is at its height, filling
up the channel of the river from side to side in a bumper,
and is gliding stilly and gently along between its margins
of green, there cannot, we think, be anything prettier than
the scene of which the little picturesque village of Govan
forms the centre or principal object. The antique row oJ
houses stretching down to the water, widened, at this parti-
cular spot, into a little lake, by the confluence of the Kelvin;
the rude, but picturesque salmon fisher's hut in the fore-
ground ; the river winding far to the west, and skirting
the base of the beautiful hills of Kilpatrick, that form the
boundary of the scene in that direction — all combine to
form, as we have already said, a scene of more than ordi-
nary beauty.

Such, as nearly as we can describe it, is the local situa-
tion and appearance of Govan at the present day ; for
often, often have we been there in our younger years, and
never shall we forget the happy hours we have spent in it.
Pleasant indeed was the walk of a summer's evening on the
banks of the Clyde — pleasant was the feast of kippered salmon,
for which the village was celebrated ; but pleasanter than all
were the looks — the kindly, parvky looks — the civility, and
he homely, but shrewd wit of David Dreghorn, the honest,

worthy, and kind-hearted landlord of the . We are

not sure if his house had a name ; but it was not necessary ;
for well and widely was David known, and by none was
he known by whom he was not esteemed and respected.

But there were other landlords in Govan before David's
day ; not more worthy or better men, but of older date —
yes, as far back as the time of James V. At that period,
the principal, indeed the only hostelry in Govan, was kept
by one Ninian, or, as he was more commonly called, Ringan
Scouler. The house* — a small, plain-looking building,
tfith marvellously few windows, and these few marvel-
lously small in size and wide apart — was situated at the
extreme end of the village, which terminates at or near the
margin of the river. All trace of it has long since dis-
appeared ; but we have pointed out its precise locality. It
commanded, as those who know the spot will at once
believe, a delightful view, or rather series of views. The
front windows looked up the Clyde, the back windows
down ; and those in the gable exhibited the Kelvin and
the woodland scenery (more so then than now) around and
beyond. The sign of his calling, which hung above the
door of Ringan Scouler's little hostelry, was then, as it
still is, that of several of his brethren in trade in the vil-
lage— the figure of a salmon, painted in its natural colours
on a black ground. Ringan's emblematic fish, however,
was not a very shapely animal ; but there was enough of
likeness remaining to place beyond all manner of doubt
that it was meant to represent the " monarch of the flood."
Mine host himself was a quiet-mannered, good-humoured,
1J4. VOL, III.

and good-natured person, with just such an eye to the one
thing needful as admitted of his cherishing this tempera
ment, and of keeping a comfortable house over his head.
Perhaps his propensity of the kind just alluded to, went
even a little further in its objects than this. We will not
say that, with all his quiet wit, and good-humour, and
kindness, and apparent carelessness about the main chance,
he was not a pretty vigilant marker of it. But what then t
It was all in a fair and honest way ; and he gave his urbanity
of manner as an equivalent.

Ringan, at the period of our story, was about fifty years
of age, of a fresh, healthy complexion, and shrewd cast ot
countenance ; the latter being lighted up by a couple of
little, cunning, grey eyes, deep set beneath a pair of shaggy
eyebrows, which, again, were surmounted by a head of
hair, prematurely grey — a constitutional characteristic ; for
neither his years nor his cares warranted this usual indi-
cation of the pressure of one or other, or both of these causes.
Ringan was, moreover, well to pass in the world ; for, being
a man of at least ordinary prudence, and having an excel-
lent business, his circumstances throve apace. His business,
we have said, was excellent. It could not he otherwise ;
for it was not in the nature of man to pass Ringan's door
without entering it. His good things, in the shape of liquor
and provender ; his quaint, sly jokes, spoken almost under
breath, which, in his case, added to their effect ; his cunning,
smirking, facetious look and manner — were all and each of
them wholly irresistible ; and all the king's lieges who
passed within a mile of his door, and who had a penny in
their pockets, felt them to be so.

Such was Ringan Scouler, the landlord of The Grilse
and Gridiron — for we forgot to say, in its proper place, that
the culinary implement just named appropriately figured at
one end of the board. The list of Ringan's regular customers,
which was a very extensive one, included the curate and
schoolmaster of Govan, both drouthy cronies and sworn
friends, although there was not a night in the world that
they did not quarrel; but this was more the effect of
Ringan's ale than of any inherent pugnacity of disposition
in the belligerents themselves. This quarrel, however, was
so usual and so regular, that Ringan could tell to a measure
of liquor when it would commence.

In summer, these worthies generally occupied a little
room that overlooked the river ; but, in winter, or when the
weather began to get chill, they took possession of a corner
of the kitchen, the most cheerful apartment in the house at
that season, as it was always kept in most admirable order.
The walls were white as snow, the floor strewed with bright
white sand ; immense rows of shining pewter plates and
fugs of the same metal glittered on the rack ; and a rousing
fire crackled in the old-fashioned chimney. Nothing, in
short, could be more tempting to the wayfarer, on a dark,
cold, and drizzly night, than a casual peep through the blaz-
ing windows into Ringan's cheerful kitchen ; and nothing
could, in reality, be more comfortable than that kitchen,
when you were once into it. In a corner of this snug
apartment, was to be found regularly, every evening, say,
?rom October to May, between the hours of seven and ten,
Mr "Walter Gibson, curate of Govan, and Mr John Craig,
schoolmaster there. Before them, and near to the fire-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

place, stood a small, fir table, and on this table invariably
stood a large pewter measure of ale, and three horn tumblers
with silver rims — one for each of the persons just named,
and a spare one for the use of the landlord, who joined
their potations as often as the demands on his attention to
the duties of the house permitted.

Out of all the evenings, however, which the curate and
schoolmaster spent in Ringan Scouler's, we can afford to
select one only ; but this shall be one on which something
occurred to diversify the monotony of their meetings, other-
wise distinguished only by the usual quarrel, the usual
humdrum conversation, (which, though sufficiently inter-
esting to themselves, would, if recorded, afford very little
entertainment to the reader,) and the usual consumption of
somewhere about a gallon of mine host's double ale. The
particular evening to which we have alluded shall be one in
the latter end of the month of October, and the year some-
where about anno 1529. It was a raw, wet, and cold night —
circumstances which greatly enhanced the comforts of
Ringan's kitchen, as both the curate and schoolmaster very
sensibly felt. Having each turned off a couple of horns of
their good host's home-brewed, the conversation between the
two worthies began to assume a lively, desultory character.

" I was up in the toun the day, curate," said the school-
master— a thin, hard-visaged personage, with a good deal of
the failing said to be inherent in his craft — conceit. " I
was up in the toun," he said — meaning Glasgow.

" Were ye ?" quoth the curate — in personal appearance
and manner the very antipodes of his friend ; being a stout
homely-looking man, of blunt speech and great good
nature ; his age, about forty-five. " And what saw ye
strange there, Mr Craig ?"

" Naething very particular, but the braw new gatehouse
o' the archbishop. My certy, yon's a notable piece o'
wark ! His arms are engraven on the front o't — three
cushions within the double tressure. Man, curate, can ye
no contrive to warsle up the brae a bit ? I'm sure waur
than you's been made a bishop."

" I'm no sae ambitious, Johnny," replied the curate.
" If I were rector o' Govan, I wad be content. But St
Mungo himsel wadna get even that length noo-a-days
without a pouchfu o' interest — and I hae nane."

" The mair's the pity," said the schoolmaster, filling up
his horn tumbler ; " but there's nae sayin what may happen
yet."

" Indeed, is there no, Mr Craig," interposed Ringan,
who made, at this particular moment, one of the party.
" Ye may get promotion, curate, whan ye least expeck it,
and may find a freen whar ye didna look for him. There's
mony chances, baith o' guid and ill, befa' folk in this
warld."

While the curate's friends were endeavouring, by these
vague and sufficiently commonplace but well-meant re-
marks, to inspire him with hopes of better days, it was
announced to the party that the ferry-boat was bringing
over a passenger. By the way, with regard to this parti-
cular, we forgot to say before that there was a ferry across
the Clyde, just below Ringan's house ; and, as the passen-
gers were not then, as they are now, very numerous, there
was always a degree of interest and speculation excited by
their appearance.

" Wha can he be ?" said Ringan. " Some o' oor am
folk, I fancy. It'll be Jamie Dinwoodie frae Glasgow fair,
I'll wad a groat. He's come roun by Partick, instead o'
comin doun by the water-side."

" The deil o' him it's, at ony rate, Ringan," said the
schoolmaster. " Jamie's been harne twa hoors since, and
as fou's a fiddler."

All further speculation on the subject of the passenger,
was here interrupted by the entrance of that person him-
self; and it w»a with some disappointment the speculators

found that, to judge by his appearance, he was not worth
speculating about ; for he was very meanly dressed — nay,
worse than meanly — his attire was beggarly ; so much so,
indeed, that there was a general belief that he was a men-
dicant by profession, although, perhaps, of a somewhat
better order than common. His apparel consisted of a
threadbare and patched short coat or surtout, of coarse
grey cloth, secured round his middle by a black belt. On
his legs he wore a pair of thick blue rig-and-fur hose or
stockings, as a certain description of these iccarables are
called in Scotland. They are now nearly extinct, but may
still be seen occasionally. Those on the legs of the stranger
were darned in fifty places, and with worsted of various
colours. His shoes were in no better condition than his
stockings, being patched in nearly as many places. On
his head, he wore an old broad blue bonnet, which, with
a pair of sadly- dilapidated inexpressibles, and a rough
newly-cut staff, completed his equipment — the whole un-
equivocally bespeaking a very limited exchequer. On his
entrance, the stranger, perceiving the respectable quality of
the guests assembled in the kitchen of The Grilse and
Gridiron, reverently doffed his bonnet, and apologized for
intruding on the " honourable company."

" Nae apology necessary, freen," said the curate, rising
from his seat to allow the poor traveller, who was dripping
with wet, to approach nearer to the fire. " Come awa —
nae apology at a' necessary. This is a public hostelry;
and, if ye can birl your bawbee, ye've as guid a richt to
accommodation as the best in the land."

" Thanks to ye, honourable sir," replied the stranger,
meekly. " I wish every ane were o' your way o' thinking :
but I find this auld coat and thae clouted shoon nae great
recommendations to civility onywhere."

Saying this, the stranger planted himself in a chair
before the fire, and ordered the landlord to bring him a
measure of ale.

" Tak a moothfu o' this, in the meantime, honest man,"
said the curate, handing him his own goblet ; " for ye seem
to be baith wat and weary."

" Ou, no ; no very weary, sir," replied the stranger, taking
the proffered goblet ; " but a wee thing wet, certainly. I
hae only come frae Glasgow the day."

" Nae far'er ?" said the curate.

" No an inch," replied the other.

" Tak it oot, man, tak it oot," said the former, as the
latter was about to return the goblet, after merely tasting it.
" It'll warm your heart, man, and I'm sure ye're welcome
till't."

The stranger, without any remark, did as he was bid, and
drained out the cup. In the business of this scene, the
schoolmaster took no part, but maintained a haughty dis-
tance ; his pride evidently hurt by the intrusion into his
society of a person of such questionable condition — a feel-
ing which he indicated by observing a dignified silence.
This difference of disposition between the two gentlemen
did not escape the stranger, who might have been detected
from time to time throwing expressive glances of inquiry,
not unmingled with contempt, at the offended dominie.
The displeasure of his friend, however, did not deter the
kind-hearted cnrate from prosecuting his conversation with
the stranger, who eventually proved to be so intelligent and
entertaining a person, that he gradually forced himself into
the position of an understood, though not formally acknow-
ledged member of the party. Being full of anecdote and
quaint humour, such as even the schoolmaster could not
altogether resist, although he made several ineffectual at-
tempts to do so, the laugh and the liquor both soon began
to circulate with great cordiality ; and, in due time, songs
were added to the evening's enjoyment. In this species of
entertainment, the good-humoured curate set the example,
at the earnest request of Tlingan, who asked him, and not

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

in vain, to " skirl up," as he called it, the following ditty,
which he had often heard the worthy churchman sin"
before : —

" In scarlet hose the bishop he goes,

In the best o' braid claith goes the vicar ;

But the curate, puir soul, has only the bowl,

To comfort him wi' its drap liquor, drap liquor,
To comfort him wi' its drap liquor.
" Right substantial, in troth, is the fat prebend's broth,
And the bishop's a hantle yet thicker ;

But muslin kail to the curate they deal

Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor, drap liquor,
Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor.
" Gie the soger renown, the doctor a gown,
And the lover the long looked for letter ;
But for me the main chance, is a weel-plenished manse —
And the sooner I get it the better, the better,
And the sooner I get it the better."

" Faith, and I say so too Avith all my heart, sir," said the
stranger, laughing loudly, and ruffing applause of the good
curate's humorous song on the table. " I'm sure I've known
many a one planted in a comfortable living, whom I would
take it upon me to say were less deserving of it than you
are."

" That may be, honest man," replied the curate ; " but,
as I said to my friend here a little ago, when he made the
same remark — I hae nae interest ; and, withoot that, ye ken,
it's as impossible to get on as for a mile-stane to row its
lane up a hill."

" Indeed, sir, that is but too true, I fear," said the
stranger ; " yet the King, they say, is very well disposed to
reward merit when he finds it, and has often done so with-
out the interference of influence."

" Ou, I daur say," replied the curate ; " he'sgude aneuch
that way — na, very guid, I believe ; but I hae nae access to
the King, and it'll be lang aneuch before my merits, if I
hae ony, which I mysel very much doot, '11 find their way
to him. He has owre mony greedy gleds to feed, for the
like o' me to hae ony chance o' promotion. No, no freen —
" Curate o' Govan I was born to be,
An* curate o' Govan I'm destined to dee."

" Ha ! ha !" exclaimed the stranger, laughing ; " a bit of
a poet, curate."

"In an unco sma' way, freen," replied the worthy
churchman.

" Excuse my freedom, sir," rejoined the stranger ; " but
pray how long have you been curate of this parish ?"

" Nine years, come Martinmas next."

" And no prospect of advancement yet?"

" Just as muckle as ye may see through a whunstane ;
and ye ken it taks gey sharp een to see onything through
that."

" Nae doot," replied the stranger; " but the King,
though he cannot see through a whunstane farther than
\ther folk, has pretty sharp eyes, and ears, too, sir, and
baith hears and sees things that every one is not aware of.
Yon may, therefore — who knows ? — be nearer promotion
than you think. Isn't the rectorship of Govan vacant just
now ?"

" Deed is t, freen," said the curate ; " and, if I had it, I
wadna ca* the King my cousin, though he were my uncle's
Bon. But it'll no be lang vacant, I warrant ; some o' thae
hungry hingers-on aboot the court '11 be clinkit doun in-
till't, in the turnin o' a divet. It's owre canny a seat to be
lang withoot a sitter."

" It will not be long without an incumbent, I dare say,"
rejoined the stranger ; " but I'm not sure that you're right,
curate, as to the description of person that will obtain it.
But will your friend here not favour us with a verse or
two ? It is his turn now."

" Ou, I dare say he will," replied the curate. " Come,
Johnny, gie's yer auld favourite."

With this request, the schoolmaster, who was now con-
siderably mollified by the liquor he had drank, readily
complied, and struck up :—

" Let kings their subjects keep in nwe,

By terror o' the laws ;
For me, I fin' there's naething like

A guid thick pair o' tawse.

" Let doctors think to store the mind,

By screeds o' rules and saws

Commend me to the learning that's

Weel whupp'd in wi' the tawse.

" Let lawyers, whan they wad prevail,

In fcne words plead their cause—
The arfjumentum still wi' me

Is tliae bit nine-taed tawse."

Suiting the action to the word, the dominie, on repeating
the last line, whipped the formidable and efficacious in-
strument he spoke of out of his pocket. Whether, how-
ever, it had actually nine toes or not, or whether that
assertion was merely a poetical flourish, none of those
present took the trouble of ascertaining.

" By my troth, sir," said the stranger, when the school-
master had concluded, " it's a pity that such a thing as
tawse was not in use outside the school as well as inside.
There are many children of the larger growth in the world
who would be greatly improved by its application."

" Come, landlord," now said the curate, " it's your turn
now ; — and it'll be yours belive, freen," he added, addressing
the stranger. " Up wi't, Ringan— up wi't, man."

" Ye'se no want that lang," said the jolly, good-natured
landlord of The Grilse and Gridiron, with one of his quiet
cunning shrugs of the shoulders and pawky leers of the
eye ; and off he went with —

" A flowing jug, a reaming jug,
'S a glorious sight, my dear boys ;

It waukens love, it lichtens care,
And drowns all sorts of fear, boys.

Come, gentlemen, chorus.

Fal de ral, &c.

" Your sober man's an arrant fool,
His spirits all are sunk, boys ;
Give me your honest, jovial soul,
That night and day is drunk, boys.

Chorus, gentlemen.

Fal de ral, &c.

Chorus.

" You tell me that his outward man
Is shabby, spare, and thin, boys ;

But you forget to reckon on
The comfort that's within, boys.

Fal de ral, &c.

" Then, whether I be here or there,

On this or t'other side, boys,
May streams of ale still round me flow,

As broad and deep's the Clyde, boys !

Chorus, gentlemen.

Fal de ral, &c."

At the moment the landlord of The Grilse and Gridiroi
had completed his temperance society lyric, and ere the
tribute of applause which was ready to be paid down on
the nail to him by his auditors for it, could be tendered
him — the feelings of the whole party were directed into
another channel, by the information that a boat- load
of passengers had just landed at the ferry. On re-
ceiving this intelligence, Ringan hurriedly rose from the
table, and ran to the door, to see what portion of the
human cargo was likely to come his way — and right glad
was he to find that he was about to be favoured with the
company of the whole. They were one party, and were
approaching Ringan's house in a string On entering the
kitchen, they were found to be three men and twro women.
Theformerwereapparentlyfarmers — two of them elderly men,
and one of thorn a young loutish-looking fellow, of about t\vo-
and-twenty. The women were mother and daughter — the
latter a beautiful girl, of about eighteen or twenty years of
age. The whole of these persons were well known to the
curate schoolmaster, and landlord ; and the consequence

76

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

was a general outcry of recognition, and a tumultuous shaking
of hands.

'How are ye, curate?" " How are ye, Clayslaps?" " Glad
to see you, Mr Craig !" " As glad to see you, Jordanhill !"

" And hoo are ye, guidwife ?" said the curate, advancing
towards the eldest of the two females, and taking her kindly
by the hand — " and you, Meenie, my bonny dear," he
said, turning towards the daughter — " hoo are ye ? and
hoo," he added, with an intelligent smirk, " is Davy Linn
o Partick ? But hoo's this ?" he said, more seriously, and
now peering into her face — " there's a tear in yer ee,
Meenie. What's wrang, lassie ? Hae ye lost yer leman ?
Has Davy no been sae kind's he should hae been ?"

Poor Meenie made no reply to the worthy curate's half
jocular, half serious remarks. Her heart was sad ; and to
her dismal and heart-withering was the errand on which
she and her friends (for, of the men of the party, one was
her father, the other her uncle, and the third her intended
husband) had come to Govan. While the curate spoke to
her, she held down her head to hide the tears that were
fast falling from her beautiful dark hazel eyes ; but she
could not conceal the heaving of her bosom, from the sobs
which she was endeavouring to suppress.

" She's a camstairy cutty," said her father, Adam Ritchie
of Clayslaps, frowningly, lc and most undutifu, no to submit
to the wishes o' her parents wi' a better grace."

" Surely every bairn is bound to obey with cheerfulness
those to whom they owe their being," said the curate ; " but
there are some cases, Clayslaps, where it wad be cruelty to
impose restraint, and unreasonable to expect ungrudged
compliance."

" Weel, weel, curate," replied Adam Ritchie, impatiently,
" we'll speak o' thae things anither time. In the meantime,
landlord," he said, turning to Ringan, " bring us in some
brandy; for we're baith cauld and wat, and a thumblefu' o'
the Frenchman '11 do us nae harm."

This order was speedily complied with. A small pewter
measure of the liquor desired, accompanied by a small sil-
ver drinking cup or quaigh, was placed on the table ; and the
whole party, including the former occupants of the kitchen,
soon began to get cheerful and somewhat talkative, with
the exception of Meenie Ritchie. In all that had hitherto
passed, he of the clouted shoes and darned hose had taken
no part, but had kept his eye steadily fixed on Meenie,
with a look of deep interest and compassion. At length,
as if urged on by the increasing energy of these feelings,
he rose, went up to hei,~and clapping her kindly on the
shoulder—

" I wish, my sweet lass," he said, " it were in my power
to lighten that bit heartie o' yours ; for it seems to me to be
sore burdened wi* some grief or other ; and I am wae to
see't."

" And what business hae ye to interfere, freen ?" said her
father, angrily. " If the lassie's in grief, whilk she has but
little reason to be. she "has them aboot her here wha hae
a deeper interest in her than ye can hae, and a hantle better
richt to be her comforters."

my word
I'll do it with but small regard to your displeasure.1

" My troth, ye're no blate, sirrah, to tell me sae — her ain
faither," said Clayslaps, reddening with anger; " but I
advise ye, freen, neither to mak nor meddle wi' oor affairs,
else ye may repent it. That lassie, sir, is my dochter ; and
there's her mother, and there's her uncle, and there's her
husband to be ; sae ye may see loo very little your inter-
ference is needed here."

" "Well, well," replied the stranger, now retiring to his
seat, '•' if there's only fair play going, I'm content ; but I
like to see that everywhere and on all occasions."

" So, Clayslaps," said the curate, here interfering, " is't
to be a match after a' — is't ?

" Indeed is't, curate," replied the former. " Meenie's
come roun at last, and is convinced her parents wadna
advise her against her interest. Sae we have just come
here this nicht for the express purpose o gettin a cast o'
your office ; and I consider it the luckiest thing in the world
that we hae forgethered wi' ye sae cannily, curate."

" Indeed ay, curate," here chimed in Meenie's mother
with that ready volubility and a little of the incoherence
of her particular class and character. " "We're just gaun
to close the business at ance, and be dune wi't. I'm sure
muckle trouble and thocht it has cost us, curate. Ye ken
Davy o' Partick, that was rinnin after Meenie, and wha the
fulish, thochtless thing had sic a wark wi', hasna a plack in
his purse — neither maut nor meal, neither hoose nor ha' «
and were we gaun to thraw awa oor lassie — wi' fifty merks.
o' tocher in her pouch, forbye what she may get whan the
guidman and me's raked i' the mools — on a landless, penny-
less chiel like that ? Na, my certy — we kent better than
that, curate ; and we're just gaun to gie her to the young
laird o' Goupinsfou there, wha can lay doun plack for plack
wi' her, and has a bein house to tak her to, forbye.**

" But," here interrupted the curate, at the same tinu
looking towards Meenie, " are ye quite sure, Mrs Ritchie,
that ye hae brocht your dochter to see this matter in the
same prudent licht that ye do ? I maun say, I doot it.
And, besides, guidwife, what's a* the hurry in marryin the
lassie — she's but young yet."

" That's a faut that's aye mendin, curate," replied
Meenie's mother; "and we think the suner she's oot o*
harm's way the better. He's but a reckless chiel that
Davy, and there's nae sayin what he micht do. Maybe
rin awa wi' her afore mornin ; for he has heard an inklin
o' oor intentions. Sae we just cam slippin awa in the
dark, to get the business settled withoot his kennin."

During all this time, poor Meenie Ritchie sat the picture
of misery and suffering. She had never, since she entered,
once raised her head, but continued wrapt up in the silent
wretchedness of despair ; painfully and forcibly shewing
how little she partook in the anxiety of her parents to
accomplish the impending union. Meenie was evidently,
in short, a victim to parental authority ; and this all pre-
sent felt and saw, and none with more compassion than
the worthy curate who was to be the unwilling instrument
of her doom.

" To be plain wi' ye, guidwife," said the kind-hearted
churchman, when the former had gone through her some-
what unconnected, but sufficiently intelligible story, " and
you, Clayslaps, and the rest o' ye that's concerned in this
business — I dinna like it, and I will not marry these per-
sons but with the full and free consent of both."

" But ye may not refuse, curate," said Meenie's father,
somewhat testily. " She has consented already, and wiL
consent again."

" In that case, certainly, I may not refuse," said the
curate, going up to the afflicted girl, and taking her kindly
by the hand. " Meenie, my dear," he now said, addressing
her, " are ye here, for the purpose o' being united to Gou-
pinsfou, o' yer ain free will and accord ?"

The poor girl made no reply.

The curate repeated his question, when her father sternly
called on her to answer. Thus urged, she uttered a scarcely
audible affirmative.

" Then, since it is so, Meenie," said the curate, dropping
her hand, " I may not decline to effect the union. Do
you desire, Clayslaps, that the ceremony should be imme-
diately performed :"

" As sune's ye like, curate," replied the latter.

" And the suner the better," added Meenie's mother.

" Our worthy landlord here, then," said the curate,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

77

prepare an apartment for us, and -we -will retire
thither and unite this young couple. In the meantime,
friends," he added, addressing the schoolmaster and he of
the darned hose, " we had better settle oor lawin."

The schoolmaster instantly drew from his pocket his
share of the reckoning, while the stranger pulled out the
foot of an old stocking, which had been ingeniously con-
verted into a purse, and was about undoing the bit of
twine with which it was secured, when the curate placed
his hand'on his arm, to arrest his proceedings, saying — .

" The ne'er a bodle, freen, ye'll pay. This'll be the schule-
maister's and mine."

"The ne'er o'that it '11 be, curate," replied the schoolmaster.
" Every ane for himsel. Plack aboot's fair play. Let every
herrin hing by its ain head. The deil a bodle I'll pay for
onybody."

" Then I will," said the curate. " I'll pay for this honest
man here ; for it may be he canna sae weel spare't." And
he laid down his own and the stranger's share of the
reckoning.

" Many thanks to ye, curate," said the latter ; " but
there's no occasion for this kindness. I have, indeed, but
little to spare ; but that gives me no claim whatever on
your generosity."

" Say nae rnair aboot it, freen," replied the curate — " say
nae mair aboot it, man. Ye'll maybe pay for me in a strait,
some ither time. It's but a trifle, at ony rate — no worth
speakin aboot ; sae ye'll obleege me by giein me my ain
way."

" "Well, well, since you insist on it," said the stranger,
again tying up the stocking-foot, " I winna press the matter.
Many thanks to ye."

The important affair of the reckoning settled, a general
movement was made amongst the party to adjourn to the
apartment which had been prepared for the celebration of
the marriage ceremony. Taking advantage of the moment-
ary confusion created by this circumstance, the curate's new
friend touched him on the elbow, led him aside, and
whispered into his ear : — " Delay the ceremony as long as
you can. The poor girl, you see, is about to be sacrificed.
Perhaps I can prevent it."

The curate nodded assent, although it was but the result
of an impulse of his kind nature ; for he could not conceive
how any one — particularly such a very humble personage
as he who had spoken to him — should have the power to
stay an event of the kind, and under the circumstances of
that which was about to take place. Still, as the request
was in accordance with his own feelings, and as he did not
know what this very odd person might have it in his power
to do in the matter, he resolved to do what he could to
comply with it. Having made the communication to the
curate just recorded, the stranger suddenly and hurriedly
left the apartment. "Whither, and the purpose for which
he went, we shall ascertain by following him.

On leaving the house, he hastened down to the river
side, and, having called the ferryman out of his temporary
habitation, a little hut erected on the bank — " Friend," he
said, " do you know Davy Linn o' Partick ?"

" Brawly that," replied the ferryman. " No a better or
decenter chiel in the country side than Davy. A warm-
hearted, honest fellow !"

<: Glad to hear it," said the inquirer. " Well, then,
since that is the case, you will have no objection to do him
a service, I daresay ?"

' It would be ill my part if I had," replied the man ;
" for he has done me twa or three services that I wadna
willingly forget."

" Then across the water with you, and up to Partick as
fast as if the Old One were after you, and tell Davy to come
here directly — to come along with you— 4f he would not
lose Meenie Ritchie for ever."

" Feth, that'll mak him rin, if onything will," said the
man, who knew of Davy'g attachment to Meenie.

" And stay, sir," continued the stranger, without noticing
the interruption; " take this" — producing a small gold
"ng — Ct and go, at the same time, to the bishop's castle, up
the way, there, on the Kelvin, and request some one of the
domestics to put it into the hands of Sir John Elphingstone,
who is residing there just now with the bishop. He will
instantly come out to you; and, when he does, tell him that
the person who sent it desires to see him here immediately,
and requests that he may come along with you. And now,
my friend," he continued, "that you may do all these errands
with the greater good-will and dispatch, here's a gold
Jacobus for thee."

The man took the coin, though not without a look of
surprise at the donor, whom he evidently thought a most
unlikely person to deal in gold rings and Jacobuses. He,
however, made no remark, but prepared to execute the
mission with which he had been entrusted; and was just about
to push off his boat, when his employer called out to him —

" I forgot to say, friend, that, when you have brought
over your passengers, you will desire them to wait in your
hut here until you have acquainted me with their arrival.
You will find me in Scouler's hostelry."

With this order, the boatman promised compliance, and
pushed off; when his employer returned to the inn, and,
planting himself before the kitchen fire, anxiously awaited
the return of his messenger.

The curate, in the meantime, was faithfully performing
his part, in promoting delay, by the aid of story and anec-
dote, although he felt as if it were a hopeless case. While
thus employed, the landlady, a lively, active, bustling body,
happening to come into the room, he suddenly stopped in
the middle of a story, and exclaimed, laughingly — " Mrs
Scouler, hae ye been makin ony brandy parritch lately ?"

" Tuts, Mr Gibson, will I never hear the end o' that ?"
replied the hostess of The Grilse and Gridiron, good-
naturedly, and hurrying out of the apartment, to escape the
further banter of the facetious churchman.

" What aboot the brandy parritch, curate?" exclaimed
the guidwife of Clayslaps, on the hostess leaving the room.

" I'll tell you that," replied the curate. ' Ae morn
ing, pretty early, last summer, there cam a serving man
mounted on horseback, to oor freend Eingan Scouler's
door here, and said he belonged to Lord Minto ; and that
he had been sent forward by his master, who was
on the road comin frae Arranthrough to Edinburgh, to
order some breakfast to be prepared for him. But what,
think ye, was the breakfast ordered for his Lordship ?
Why, it was parritch — plain, simple parritch ; for, it seems,
he prefers it to a' ither kind of food for his morning meal.
Weel, however much astonished Mrs Scouler was at this
order, she readily undertook to prepare the dish desired •
and the man departed. But he had no sooner gone, than
it occurred to her, that parritch for a lord ought to be made
somewhat differently from those intended for a plebeian
stomach. But wherein was this difference to consist?
There was no choice of materials, no variety of ingredients
no process of manufacture, but one, that she had ever seen
or heard tell of. At length, after racking her brain for
some time, to see if she could not strike out something new
on the subject, it occurred to her that, if she would substi-
tute brandy for water, the desired object would be accom-
plished, and a lordly dish produced. Acting on this bright
idea, the guidwife immediately emptied a bottle o' brandy
into the parritch-pot, and proceeded with the remainder of
the process in the usual way. By the time his Lordship
came up, the parritch was ready, and a dish of them placed
before him. Little suspecting— although he thocht :
looked a wee thing darker than they should do— that t here
was anything wrong, his Lordship took a thumpm spoonfu

78

TALES OF THE BORDERS

to begin wi' ; but he no sooner fan' the extraordinary taste
they had, than he jumped from his seat, threw doon the
spune, and sputtered the contents o' his mooth a' owre the
table, thinkin he was poisoned. He then ran to the door,
and called oot violently for oor guid hostess here. In great
alarm, she ran hastily up the stair, and inquired what was
the matter.

" ' The matter, woman !' exclaimed his Lordship, in a
towering passion. * What's this you hac gien me ?' —
pointing to the parritch — ' what infernal stuff is that ?'

"Mrs Scouler, surprised at his Lordship's want of discern-
ment, explained to him what she had dune ; when he burst
out a-laughing, told her that the taste of a peer and a
ploughman was precisely the same, and requested her to
make him just such a mess as she made for her ain family.
This was accordingly dune ; whan his Lordship, payin sax
prices for his hamely breakfast, set off in great guid humour,
telling Mrs Scouler, however, at parting, never to put brandy
in his parritch again."

The curate, having concluded this episodical anecdote,
proceeded with the story which he had interrupted to relate
it ; but was beginning to be secretly uneasy, at the long
delay which was taking place in the operations of his friend
of the darned stockings. From this feeling, however, he
was in some measure relieved by the latter's sending for
him, after a short while, and begging of him to gain but
other fifteen minutes, if he could, when he pledged himself
that such an event would occur as would, in all probability,
save Meenie Ritchie from the fate that threatened her.

" But what is the event ye allude to, freen, and what is't
ye propose to do in this matter that '11 produce the effect ye
speak o' ?" said the curate, looking doubtingly at his new
acquaintance.

" Patience a little, my good sir," replied the latter, smil-
ing, " and ye shall know all. In the meantime, trust to my
good faith, and you will find that I can do more perhaps
than my appearance would promise."

' ' Be it even so, then," said the curate ; " but observe I
cannot possibly put the ceremony off beyond the time you
have mentioned ; for a' but the puir lassie hersel are gettin
restlessly impatient."

The curate now returned to his party, and again had
recourse to his store of anecdote, which was an inexhaust-
ible one, to protract the performance of the ceremony. In
the meantime, the boatman, faithful to his trust, was dili-
gently executing the missions confided to him. On enter-
ing the house of Davy Linn's father, he found Davy sitting
disconsolately by the fire, his head resting on his hand, and
his eyes fixed, in thoughtful gaze, on the burning embers.
He was thinking of Meenie Ritchie — there could be no
doubt of that ; for poor Davy thought of little else. For-
merly, these thoughts had been pleasant to Davy; but at this
moment they were sad and heart-withering ; for he had
heard some rumours of her parents intending to many her
to another ; and he now, therefore, considered her as for
ever lost to him.

" What the mischief, Davy, man, art- ye sittin gloomin
and glunchin at, there ?" said the ferryman, whose name was
Archy Dawson, slapping the person he addressed on the
shoulder — " up, man, up ! — I hae guid news for you — at
least, what I think's likely to turn oot sae." .

Davy, who had hitherto been so engrossed by his own
gloomy reflections, as either not to have heard or not heeded
the. entrance of Archy Dawson, now rose from his seat, and,
confronting the former, asked, with a faint smile, what
the news was.

" Is there naebody in the hoose but yersel, Davy f"
inquired Archy, looking cautiously round the apartment.

" Nane at this moment," replied Davy ; " but there'll be
>me o' them here belive, I daursa}'."

Week before they come, Davy, I'U tell you what's

gome

brocht me here the nicht." And Archy proceeded to
relate the particulars of his mission.

Davy made no reply for some time ; but the clenching ol
his teeth shewed that some fierce spirit had been roused
within him by the intelligence. At length he said — " Ay, I
see how it is : they have stolen a march on me. Oh,
if I had known this but an hour since, they should have had
more guests at the wedding than they counted on, although
some of them might not have been very welcome."

" Maybe, maybe, Davy," said Archy ; " but it's likely
no owre late yet ; sae come awa as fast's ye can, man, and
let's see what this business '11 turn oot to, and I'll tell ye the
rest o' my story as we gang alang."

Davy, although without knowing distinctly why 01
wherefore, now left the house with his friend Archy, when
the latter, as promised, acquainted him with the other mis-
sion he had to execute — namely, the delivering the ring
to Sir John Elphingstone, at the bishop's castle, whithei
Davy subsequently accompanied him.

On arriving at the lordly mansion of the prelate, Archj
inquired of a servant if Sir John was there, and was told
that he was.

" Then," said he, " be sae guid, freen, as tak up this bit
trantalum o' a thing till him, and I'll wait whar I am till
I hear frae him."

In a few minutes, after Sir John appeared, and, accosting
Archy, said — " Well, my friend, what commands have you
brought along with this ?" producing the ring.

" The person that gied me that, sir," said Archy, " de-
sired me to tell you to come along wi' me."

" And, pray, where are you from, friend ?"

" Ou, no far awa, sir," said Archy — " just frae Govan.
owre the way there."

" Very well, I'll accompany you. But who's this you
have with you ?" inquired the knight, looking at Davy
Linn, who stood close by.

" That lad's name, sir," said Archy, " is Davy Linn ;
he belangs to Partick, up there, sir. He's a fine lad,
Davy — a fine, decent, canny lad, sir."

" I have no reason to doubt it," replied Sir John ; " but
what does he here with you ?"

" Dear me, sir," said Archy — c< he was sent for, too, by
the same chield that sent you the ring. I was desired to
bring ye baith."

" Oh, indeed," replied Sir John — " that's enough ; let us
proceed, then." And the three immediately set off for Govan.
On their arrival on the opposite bank of the river, Archy
leaving them there, hastened up to Ringan Scouler's, and
intimated to his employer that he had executed his mission,
and that the persons he had sent for waited him in his hut.
On receiving this information, the former hastened down to
the ferry station ; and, after a brief interview and hasty
explanation with Sir John and Davy, of which we leave the
sequel to shew the import, returned with equal haste to the
hostelry, and now pushed boldly into the apartment occu-
pied by the marriage party. The time stipulated with the
curate had expired ; and the latter, finding he could no
longer delay the discharge of the duty he was called upon
to perform, had already commenced the service.

" Friend," said the intruder, with a degree of boldness and
familiarity in his manner which he had not before assumed,
and at the same time laying his hand on the arm of the
curate, to arrest his attention, <f pray, stop a moment, if you
please, till I speak a word with the bride's father." Saying
this, and now turning round to the person to whom he
alluded — " May I ask, Clayslaps," he said, " if your objec-
tion to your daughter's having the man of her choice is his
want of fortune ?"

Clayslaps looked for a moment at the querist with an
expression of extreme surprise, but at length said —

" I dinna see what richt. freen, ve hae to put such (jues-

TALES. OF THE BORDERS.

tions ; nevertheless. I will answer't. It is ; and a guid and
sufficient ane it'll be allooed, I think."

" Is it your only one ? Have you no other fault to lay
>o the young man's charge ?"

" I hae nae faut to charge him \vi'," replied Clayslaps,
crustily and reluctantly. "The lad, for ought I ken to the
contrary, is weel aneuch in ither respects. But he's nae
match for my dochter."

" Your wife has said," continued the querist, "• that your
daughter's portion is fifty merks, which is to be met
by a similar sum on the part of the young man whom you
intend for her husband. Now, friend, if Davy could pro-
duce two merks for her one — that is, a hundred to her
fifty — what would you say to having him still for a son-
in-law ?"

'• Why," said the bride's father, " that wad certainly hac
altered the case at ae time ; but it's owre late noo."

" Not a bit, not a bit," replied the propounder of the
question — "• better late than never."

" But young Goupinsfou has lands as weel as siller/'
rejoined Clayslaps.

" True, I believe," said the other speaker ; " but suppose
Davy could produce you evidence of his being a laird, too —
say — let me see" — and he paused a moment — " say he could
shew you that he was laird of a hundred acres of the best
land within half a dozen miles of Partick, what would you
say, then, guidman, to having Davy for your daughter's
husband ?"

" What's the use o' talkin this nonsense ?" said the laird
of Clayslaps, impatiently; " everybody kens that Davy
Linn's baith landless and pennyless, and likely aye tobe. Sae,
freend, hae the guidness to retire — for your company's no
wanted here — and let the ceremony proceed."

lf Not so fast, laird, if you please," replied the person
addressed. And then turning to the bride's mother, " What
would you say, guidwife, to Davy for a son-in-law, if he
had all the property I have mentioned ?"

" Ou, indeed, man, it wad surely hae altered the case
a'thegither — there's nae doot o' that. I wad hae had nae
objection till him, had that been the case — neither wad her
faither, I am sure. But, as the guidman has said, what's
the use o' speakin o' thae things, noo, at ony rate ? Davy
has naething, and Goupinsfou has plenty, and that maks a'
the differ — but, my feth, an unco differ it is."

" No doubt ; but, if we remove this differ, guidwife," re-
joined the stranger, " perhaps we may yet prevent two
fond hearts being separated; and, to end this matter at once,"
continued the speaker, but now in a serious tone, " / will
pay down a hundred merks on Davy Linn's account, as a
free gift to him, on the day after he has become the hus-
band of your daughter, and / will put him in possession,
as a free gift also, of a hundred acres of the best land within
six miles of Partick, on the same day and on the same
condition."

" Yell pay doon a hunner merks to Davy Linn, and yell
gie him a hunner acres o' land !" exclaimed Clayslaps, in
the utmost amazement, and looking at the threadbare coat,
clouted shoes, and darned hose of the man of promises, with
the most profound contempt and incredulity. ' And whar
the deil are ye to get them ?"

" Never ye fear that, freen," replied the latter, laughing ;
" I'll find them, I warrant you."

" Let's see the siller," said Clayslaps, triumphantly.

" Why, you certainly have me there, Clayslaps. I have
not the money on me indeed ; but I will find you instant
security for it, and for the entire fulfilment of my pro-
mises.— Landlord," continued the speaker — and now turn-
ing to Ringan, who was one of his astonished auditors —
" please to say to Sir John Elphingstone, whom I presume
you know is to be found in the next room, that it will be
cbliging if he will step this way a moment."

We will not stop to describe the amazement that wag
felt by all, and expressed on every countenance in the
apartment, on the delivery of this extraordinary message.
Sir John Elphingstone was well known to every one there
as a gentleman of large possessions and highly honour-
able character; and how he came to be at the call of such a
person as he who had sent for him, or how he came to be
in the house at all at such a time, was matter of inexpress-
ible surprise^© every one present. The whole affair, in short,
was one of impenetrable mystery and perplexity to all, in-
cluding the worthy curate. We will -not, however, wait to
describe the feelings of the party on this occasion, but go
straight on with our story. Neither will we do so in any
case, thinking it much better to leave such matters wholly
to the reader's own imagination.

The summons that called Sir John into the presence of
the marriage folks was immediately obeyed. In an instant,
that gentleman entered the apartment, with a smile upon his
face, all the party standing up and receiving him with the
most marked reverence and respect.

" You'll excuse the liberty I have taken in sending for
you, Sir John," said the person who had called him, on the
former's entrance ; " and I certainly would not have taken
that liberty had I not known how much pleasure it gives you
when an opportunity is afforded you of doing a generous
thing. Here, Sir John, is a young woman about to be
sacrificed at the altar of Mammon. Now, I know that
you would not permit this if you could help it. Neither
will I ; and, to prevent it, I have promised, to the intended
bride's father here, that I will give one hundred merks and
one hundred acres of land to the husband of Meenie's
choice, Davy Linn of Partick — a very deserving young man,
I believe — on the day after she is married to him. ' - Now,
Sir John, will you become my security to Clayslaps for the
fulfilment of this promise ?"

" Most assuredly," said Sir John, smiling ; " let me have
pen, ink, and paper, and I will give him my written obli-
gation to that effect."

The materials were brought, and the obligation drawn
out ; Clayslaps and all the others being too much confounded
by what was passing to offer any interruption or make any
remark. When the paper was written, it was handed to
Meenie's father, who, almost unconsciously — for he did not
seem to know very well what he was doing — read it over.
On concluding the perusal —

"A' richt aneugh," he said — " a' richt aneugh. 'Od, this
is a queer business. But it's a' owre late, guid sirs. We
canna be aff wi Goupinsfou at this stage o' the affair, and in
this sort o' way. It wadna be fair nor honest, and wad
look unco strange like. Besides, ye canna expeck that he
would submit to't himsel."

This was certainly a reasonable enough supposition ; bur
it happened to be an unfounded one ; for Goupinsfou was
not only an ass, but a most abominably mean and selfish
one ; and Sir John, aware of this, thought he knew a way
to reconcile him to the loss of Meenie.

Going up to Goupinsfou, he took him aside and whis-
pered in his ear—" I say, laird, you've long had an eye, I
know, to the bit holm on the Kelvin, below the Gorroch
Mills."

" It's a bonny spot," interrupted Goupinsfou, cocking hi3

ears.

It is," replied Sir John. '« Well, then, it shall be
yours if you give up all claim to the hand of Meenie Ritchie,
and give me, in writing, an entire quittance on that score."
" Dune !" exclaimed Goupinsfou, instantly, wisely calcu-
latin" that he could readily find another wife, but might
not so readily get another offer of the piece of land he so
much coveted. " Dune, Sir John !" he exclaimed, grasping
that gentleman by the hand with the selfish eagerness that
belonged to his character; but, desirous of glozmg over tJ

80

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

meanness of the transaction, he placed his acquiescence on
another footing than that of bribery, by adding, " I wadna
like, I'm sure, to force the lassie to marry me against her
will. I gie her up wi' a' my heart."

Having obtained the brute's consent to resign the hand
of Meenie, Sir John turned to the party, and informed them
that their worthy friend, the laird of Goupinsfou, out of con-
sideration for the feelings of Meenie Ritchie, which he
feared were not favourable to him, resigned all claim to her
hand, and left her at full liberty to marry whom she pleased.

4f Weel, that's certainly sae far guid," said Clayslaps ;
" but still I'm no a'thegither reconciled to this business.
It looks"

" Toots, guidman," here interposed his wife, " the
thing's a' richt aneuch. Havena ye Sir John's haun o' vrit
for the promise made by this — this"— and she looked at the
person she meant, and would have said gentleman, but
another glimpse of the patched shoes directed her to the
words — " honest man, to gie Davie the land and siller
spoken o'; and what mair wad ye hae ? Davie's a discreet,
decent, weel-doin lad, everybody kens, that will mak,
I'm sure, a guid husband to Meenie; sae, just let them
e'en gang thegither." She would scarcely have said so
much for Davie an hour before ; but she said it now, and
it was all well enough.

" Weel, weel, guidwife," said Clayslaps, " since it is sae,
we'll see aboot it. There can be nae harm, however, in
delayin a day or twa, at ony rate, till we think owre't."

" No, no — no delay," exclaimed the meddling stranger ;
" delays are dangerous, guidman. Nothing like the pre-
sent moment. Let us strike while the iron's hot. — Land-
lord," he said, turning round to Ringan, " send Davy Linn
here."

In a second after, Davie Linn rushed into the apartment,
flew to Meenie, and caught her in his arms. " Mine yet !
mine yet, Meenie !" he exclaimed, rapturously. It was all
he could say ; and, little as it was, it was more than her he
addressed was able to express. During the whole night,
indeed, she had not opened her lips, and seemed to have
been scarcely conscious of what was passing around her.
This was the effect of deep misery ; and the result was now
nearly the same from an excess of joy.

" No delay now, curate," said the intermeddler. " Set to
work as fast as you can, and buckle these two together.
No objection, I fancy?"

" Oh, none in the world," said the curate — " I'll fix them
in a trice. But I say, friend/' he added, laughing, " I'm
thinkin what a fule I was to pay your reckonin the nicht —
ane wha maks the merks flee like drift snaw on a windy
day, and gies away lumps o' land wi' as little thocht as —
as — as I settled your lawin. Feth, but it was fulish
aneuch o' me, and ye're a queer ane, be ye wha ye like."

" Not so very foolish, perhaps, as you think, curate," said
the person thus addressed — " and that, it's possible, ye may
find. At any rate, it's no lost what a friend gets, you know,
curate ; but, in the meantime, will you proceed with the
ceremony, if you please. And, guidman," he added, turn-
ing to Clayslaps, " will ye allow me to give away the
bride ?"

" I ken nane here that has a better richt," replied the
latter, now thoroughly reconciled to the sudden and most
unexpected change in his daughter's destiny which had
taken place. " Ye may either gie her awa or tak her yer-
sel, just as ye like ; for, by my faith, ye seem to be a guid
honest chiel, be ye wha ye like, as the curate says."

" "Well, then, since you place her at my disposal, I here
give her to Davy Linn o* Partick — and may he always con-
tinue to deserve her !"

This conveyance of the fair Meenie, the curate lost no
time in legalizing and confirming. When the ceremony
was completed, " Now," said the stranger, " it there be a

fiddler or piper in all Govan, who will play to us for love
or money, let him be brought here instantly, and we'll finish
as well as we've begun. By St Bride, we'll have a night of
it ! What say you, Sir John ?" And he turned to that
gentleman with a smile. " Will you condescend to honour
us with your presence, and with as. much good humour as
you can conveniently spare ?"

" Oh, most certainly," replied the latter, laughing — "with
all my heart."

The desired musician was procured, and made his appear-
ance. The room was cleared, creature comforts were
ordered in in unsparing abundance, and such a night of
mirth and fun ensued as, we believe, has not been seen
since in the little village of Govan, and, perhaps, not often
anywhere else. The curate danced and frisked about like
a three-year-old ; Sir John conducted himself with no less
animation ; but neither of them had the smallest chance
with the gentleman in the darned hose. He kept the floor
almost the whole night, whooping and hallooing in a most
spirited manner, and dancing fully half the time with the
bride, and the rest with her mother, the guidwife of
Clayslaps, relieved occasionally by a turn out Avith some
young girls of the neighbourhood, whom the landlord of
The Grilse and Gridiron had hurriedly brought together, on
the principle of " the more the merrier." But time and tide
wait on no man. Morning came, and the revellers pre-
pared to depart to their several homes. The marriage
party, including the bride and bridegroom, and Sir John
Elphingstone, proceeded to the ferry, to which they were
accompanied by him who had performed the principa]
character of the night. Having seen them all embarked,
and having wished the young married couple every Jiappi-
ness, he stood on the shore for an instant, waved them a
final adieu, retired by the way of the village, and was seen
no more.

Within a week after the occurrence of the events just
related, the worthy curate of Govan was surprised one day
by receiving a letter from the archbishop of Glasgow.

" What's wrang noo ?" said the curate to himself, as he
opened it. " My dismissal, I suppose, for the irregularity o'
my conduct in Ringan Scouler's, the ither nicht."

It was not exactly so, as the reader will perceive. The
letter ran thus : — " At the recommendation of a high per-
sonage, I intend appointing you to the vacant rectorship ot
of Govan. You will, therefore, repair immediately to me,
either at my palace at Glasgow, or my castle at Partick,
that I may confer with you farther on the subject. — DUNBAH,
A. B. of G."

" Whe-e-e-ou !" ejaculated the curate, with a long-drawn
expiration, when he had read this very pleasant document —
" I smell a rat. 'Od, but it was stupid o' me no to think
o't afore. I'm sure I micht hae kent him ; for I've seen
him twa or three times ; but then he was in a green frock
coat o' the finest claith ; a velvet bonnet, wi' ruby and
feathers, was on his head ; a chain o' gowd, worth five hun-
ner merks, if it was worth a bodle, roun his neck, and a
gaucy sword by his side. Still I ought to hae kent him, for
a' his clooted shoon and darned hose. But the cat's oot o
the pock — and, my word, a bonny beast it is !"

What does the good curate's hints and allegorical allu-
sions mean ? inquires the reader. Why, it means that the
worthy man suspected — and we have no doubt his suspicion
was perfectly correct — that the person in the darned hose
was no other than James V., King of Scotland,

TAL

WILSON'S

cal, SFralitttonavg, antr £magtnatf&*

OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON
CHAPTER I.

" Of Ferguson, the bauld and slec." — BURNS.

I HAVE, 1 believe, as little of the egotist in my composition
as most men ; nor would I deem the story of my life,
though by no means unvaried by incident, of interest
enough to repay the trouble of either writing or perusing it,
were it the story of my own life only ; but, though an
obscure man myself, I have been singularly fortunate in
my friends. The party-coloured tissue of my recollections
is strangely interwoven, if I may so speak, with pieces of
the domestic history of men whose names have become as
familiar to our ears as that of our country itself; and I
have been induced to struggle with the delicacy which
renders one unwilling to speak much of one's self, and to
overcome the dread of exertion natural to a period of life
greatly advanced, through a desire of preserving to my
countrymen a few notices, which would otherwise be lost
to them, of two of their greatest favourites. I could once
reckon among my dearest and most familiar friends, Robert
Burns and Robert Ferguson.

It is now rather more than sixty years since I studied
for a few weeks at the University of St Andrew's. I was
the son of very poor parents, who resided in a sea-port
town on the western coast of Scotland. My father was a
house-carpenter, a quiet, serious man, of industrious habits
and great simplicity of character, but miserably depressed
in his circumstances, through a sickly habit of body ; my
mother was a warm-hearted, excellent woman, endowed
with no ordinary share of shrewd good sense and sound
feeling, and indefatigable in her exertions for my father
and the family. I was taught to read, at a very early age,
by an old woman in the neighbourhood — such a person as
Shenstone describes in his "Schoolmistress;" and, being natur-
ally of a reflective turn, I had begun, long ere I had attained
my tenth year, to derive almost my sole amusement from
books. I read incessantly ; and, after exhausting the shelves
of all the neighbours, and reading every variety of work
that fell in my way — from '' The Pilgrim's Progress" of Bun-
yan, and the Gospel Sonnets of Erskine, to a treatise on forti-
fication by Yaban, and the " History of the Heavens" by the
Abbe Pluche — I would have pined away for lack of my
accustomed exercise, had not a benevolent Baronet in the
neighbourhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought,
taken a fancy to me, and thrown open to my perusal a large
and well-selected library. Nor did his kindness terminate
until, after having secured to me all of learning that the
parish school afforded, he had settled me, now in my seven-
teenth year, at the University.

Youth is the season of warm friendships and romantic
wishes and hopes. We say of the child, in its first attempts
to totter along the wall, or when it has first learned to rise
beside its mother's knee, that it is yet too weak to stand
alone ; and we may employ the same language in describ-
ing a young and ardent mind. It is, like the child, too
weak to stand alone, and anxiously seeks out some kindred
mind on which to lean. I had had my intimates at school,
who, though of no very superior cast, had served me, if I
115.* VOL, III

may so speak, as resting-places, when wearied with my
studies, or when I had exhausted my lighter reading ; and
now, at St Andrew's, where I knew no one, I began to ex-
perience the unhappiness of an unsatisfied sociality. My
schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate lads, who, with a
little bad Latin and worse Greek, plumed themselves
mightily on their scholarship ; and I had little inducement
to form any intimacies among them ; for, of all men, the
ignorant scholar is the least amusing. Among the students
of the upper classes, however, there was at least one indi-
vidual with whom I longed to be acquainted. He was ap-
parently much about my own age, rather below than above
the middle size, and rather delicately than robustly formed ;
but I have rarely seen a more elegant figure or more inter-
esting face. His features were small, and there was what
might perhaps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in the
whole contour ; but there was a broad and very high ex-
pansion of forehead, which, even in those days, when we
were acquainted with only the phrenology taught by Plato,
might be regarded as the index of a capacious and power-
ful mind ; and the brilliant light of his large black eyes,
seemed to give earnest of its activity.

" Who, in the name of wonder, is that ?" I inquired of a
class-fellow, as this interesting-looking young man passed
me for the first time.

" A clever, but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh,"
replied the lad ; " a capital linguist, for he gained our first
bursary three years ago ; but our Professor says he is cer-
tain he will never do any good. He cares nothing for the
company of scholars like himself; and employs himself—
though he excels, I believe, in English composition — in writ-
ing vulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan Ramsay. His name
is Robert Ferguson."

I felt, from this moment, a strong desire to rank among
the friends of one who cared nothing for the company of
such men as my class-fellow, and who, though acquainted
with the literature of England and Rome, could dwell with
interest on the simple poetry of his native country.

There is no place in the neighbourhood of St Andrew's
where a leisure hour may be spent more agreeably than
among the ruins of the Cathedral. I was not slow in dis-
covering the eligibilities of the spot; and it soon became one
of my favourite haunts. One evening, a few weeks after I
had entered on my course at college, I had seated myself
among the ruins in a little ivied nook fronting the setting
sun, and was deeply engaged with the melancholy Jaques
in the forest of Ardennes, when, on hearing a light footstep,
I looked up, and saw the Edinburgh student whose appear-
ance had so interested me, not four yards away. He was
busied with his pencil and his tablets, and muttering, as he
went, in a half audible voice, what, from the inflection of
the tones, seemed to be verse. On seeing me, he started,
and apologizing, in a few hurried but courteous words, for
what he termed the involuntary intrusion, ^would have
passed; but, on my rising and stepping up to him, he stood.

" I am afraid, Mr Ferguson," I said, " 'tis I who owe you
an apology ; the ruins have long been yours, and I am but
an intruder. But you must pardon me ; I have often heard
of them in the west, where they are hallowed, even more
than they are here, from their connection with the historv

82

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

of some of our noblest Reformers ; and, besides, I see no
place in tbe neighbourhood where Shakspeare can be read
to more advantage."

" Ah," said he, taking the volume out of my hand, " a
reader of Shakspeare and an admirer of Knox ! I question
whether the heresiarch and the poet had much in common."

" Nay, now, Mr Ferguson," I replied, '•' you are too true
a Scot to question that. They had much, very much in
common. Knox was no rude Jack Cade, but a great and
powerful-minded man ; decidedly as much so as any of the
nobler conceptions of the dramatist — his Caesars, Brutuses,
or Othellos. Buchanan could have told you that he had
even much of the spirit of the poet in him, and wanted
only the art ; and just remember how Milton speaks of
him in his "Areopagitica." Had the poet of "Paradise Lost"
thought regarding him as it has become fashionable to
think and speak now, he would hardly have apostrophized
him as — Knox, the Reformer of a nation — a great man
animated by the spirit of God."

" Pardon me," said the young man, " I am little
acquainted with the prose writings of Milton ; and have,
indeed, picked up most of my opinions of Knox at second-
hand. But I have read his merry account of the murder
of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived
notions of him, from either the matter or manner of the
narrative. Now that I think of it, however, my opinion
of Bacon would be no very adequate one, were it formed
solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII., given
by Kaimes in his late publication. — Will you not extend
your walk ?"

"We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering
along the shore. There was a rich sunset glow on the
water, and the hills that rise on the opposite side of the
Frith stretched their undulating line of azure under a
gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion
pointed to the scene : — " These glorious clouds," he said,
" are but wreaths of vapour ; and these lovely hills, accu-
mulations of earth and stone. And it is thus with all the
past — with the past of our own little histories, that borrows
so much of its golden beauty from the medium through
•which we survey it — with the past, too, of all history. There
is poetry in the remote — the bleak hill seems a darker
firmament, and the chill wreath of vapour, a river of fire.
And you, sir, seem to have contemplated the history of our
stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you
forget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through
which you surveyed them."

" Ah, Mr Ferguson," I replied, Cf you must permit me to
make a distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your
remark ; the analogy, too, is nice and striking, but I would
fain carry it a little further. Every eye can see the beauty
of the remote ; but there is a beauty in the near — an interest,
at least — which every eye cannot see. Each of the thousand
little plants that spring up at our feet, has an interest and
beauty to the botanist ; the mineralogist would find some-
thing to engage him in every little stone. And it is thus
with the poetry of life — all have a sense of it in the remote
and the distant ; but it is only the men who stand high in the
art — its men of profound science — that can discover it in the
near. The mediocre poet shares but the commoner gift,
and so he seeks his themes in ages or countries far removed
from his own ; while the man of nobler powers, knowing
that all nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds it in
the men and scenes in his immediate neighbourhood. As
to our Reformers"

" Pardon me," said the young poet — " the remark strikes
me, and, ere we lose it in something else, I must furnish
you with an illustration. There is an acquaintance of mine,
a lad much about my own age, greatly addicted to the study
of poetry. He has been making verses all his life-long ;
he began ere he had learnt to write them even ; and his

judgment has been gradually overgrowing his earlier com,
positions, as you see the advancing tide rising on the beach
and obliterating the prints on the sand. NOAY, I have
observed, that, in all his earlier compositions, he went far
from home ; he could not attempt a pastoral without first
transporting himself to the vales of Arcady ; or an ode td
Pity or Hope, without losing the warm living sentiment in
the dead, cold personifications of the Greek. The Hope
and Pity he addressed were, not the undying attendants of
human nature, but the shadowy spectres of a remote age.
Now, however, I feel that a change has come over me. I
seek for poetry among the fields and cottages of my own
land. I — a — a — the friend of whom I speak' But 1 inter-
rupted your remark on the Reformers."

" Nay," I replied, " if you go on so, I would much rather
listen than speak. I only meant to say, that the Knoxes
and Melvilles of our country have been robbed of the admira-
tion and sympathy of many a kindred spirit, by the strangely
erroneous notions that have been abroad regarding them
for at least the last two ages. Knox, I am convinced,
would have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, had he not
been greater."

We sauntered along the shore, till the evening had dark-
ened into night, lost in an agreeable interchange of thought.
" Ah!" at length exclaimed my companion, " I had almost
forgotten my engagement, Mr Lindsay ; but it must not
part us. You are. a stranger here, and I must introduce
you to some of my acquaintance. There are a few of us —
choice spirits, of course — who meet every Saturday evening
at John Hogg's ; and I must just bring you to see them.
There may be much less wit than mirth among us ; but you
will find us all sober when at the gayest ; and old John will
be quite a study for you.'

CHAPTER II.

Say, ye red goTros that aften here
Hae toasted cakes to Katie's beer,
Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer,

Sae blythe, sae daft !
Ye'll ne'er again in life's career

Sit half sae saft.

Elegy an Jokn Hogg,

We returned to town ; and, after threading a few of the
narrower lanes, entered by a low door into a long dark room,
dimly lighted by a fire. A tall thin woman was employed
in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a table in a corner.

" Where's the guidman, Kate?" said my companion, chang-
ing the sweet pure English in which he had hitherto spoken,
for his mother tongue.

" John's ben in the spence," replied the woman. " Little
Andrew, the wratch, has been makin a totum wi' his faither's
ae razor, an* the puir man's trying to shave himsel yonder
an' girnan like a sheep's head on the tangs."

" Oh, the wratch ! the ill-deedie wratch !" said John, stalk
ing into the room, in a towering passion, his face covered
with suds and scratches — " I might as weel shave mysel
wi' a mussel shillet. — Rob Ferguson, man, is that you !"

" Wearie warld, John," said the poet, " for a* ooi
philosophy."

" Philosophy ! — it's but a snare, Rab — just vanity an*
vexation o' speerit, as Solomon says. An' isna it clear hetero-
dox, besides ? Ye study an' study till your brains gang
aboot like a whirligig ; an' then, like bairns in a boat that
see the land sailin, ye think its the solid yearth that's turnin
round. An' this ye ca' philosophy ; as if David hadna tauld
us that the warld sits coshly on the waters, an' canna be
moved."

" Hoot, John," rejoined my companion, " it's no me, but
Jamie Brown, that differs wi' you in thae matters. I'm a
Hoggonian, ye ken. The auld Jews were, doubtless, gran'
Christians, an' wherefore no guid philosophers too ? But it

TALES UF THE BORDERS.

83

waa cruel o' you to unkennel me this mornin' afore six, an*
I up sae Jang at my studies the nicht afore."

"Ah, Rob, Rob !" said John — " studying in Tarn Dun's
kirk. Yc'll be a minister, like a' the lave."

" Mendin fast, John," rejoined the poet. "I was in your
kirk on Sabbath last, hearing worthy Mr Corkindale ; what-
ever else he may hae to fear, he's in nae danger o' ' thinking
his am thoughts,' honest man."

" Inoorkirk!" said John — " ye're dune, then, wi' precenting
in yer ain — an' troth nae wonder. What could hae pos-
sessed ye to gie up the puir chield's name i' the prayer,
an' him sittin at yer lug ?"

I was unacquainted with the circumstance to which he
alluded, and requested an explanation. " Oh, ye see," said
John, " Rob, amang a' the ither gifts that he misguides, has
the gift o' a sweet voice ; an' naething less would ser' some
o' oor Professors than to hae him for their precentor.
They micht as weel hae thocht o' an organ — it wad be
just as devout ; but the soun's everything now, laddie, ye
ken, an' the heart naething. Weel, Rob, as ye may think,
was less than pleased wi' the job, an' tauld them he could
whistle better than sing ; but it wasna that they wanted,
and sae it behoved him to tak his seat in the box. An',
lest the folk should be no pleased wi' ae key to ae tune,
he gaed them, for the first twa or three days, a hail bunch
to each ; an' there was never sic singing in St Andrew's
afore. Weel, but for a' that, it behoved him still to precent;
though he has got rid o' it at last — for what did he do, twa
Sabbaths agone, but put up drunken Tarn Moffat's name in
the prayer — the very chield that was sittin at his elbow,
though the minister couldna see him. An' when the puir
stibbler was prayin for the reprobate as woel's he could, ae
half o' the kirk was needcessitated to come oot, that they
micht keep decent, an' the ither half to swallow their pocket
napkins. But what think ye"

" Hoot, John, now, leave oot the moral," said the poet.
lf Here's a' the lads."

Half a dozen young students entered as he spoke ; and,
after a hearty greeting, and when he had introduced me to
them one by one, as a choice fellow of immense reading,
the door was barred, and we sat down to half a dozen of
home-brewed, and a huge platter of dried fish. There was
much mirth and no little humour. Ferguson sat at the
head of the table, and old John Hogg at the foot. I thought
of Eastcheap, and the revels of Prince Henry ; but our
Falstaff was an old Scotch Seceder, and our Prince a gifted
young fellow, who owed all his influence over his fellows to
the force of his genius alone.

" Prythee, Hal," I said, " let us drink to Sir John."

" Why, yes," said the poet, " with all my heart. Not
quite so fine a fellow, though, 'bating his Scotch honesty.
Half Sir John's genius would have served for an epic poet
• — half his courage for a hero."

" His courage !" exclaimed one of the lads.

" Yes, Willie, his courage, man. Do you think a coward
could have run away with half the coolness ? With a tithe
of the courage necessary for such a retreat, a man would
have stood and fought till he died. Sir John must have
been a fine fellow in his youth."

" In mony a droll way may a man fa' on the drap drink,"
remarked John ; " an meikle ill, dootless, does it do in takin
aff the edge o' the speerit — the mair if the edge be a fine
razor edge, an' no the edge o' a whittle. I mind, about fifty
years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant"

" Losh, John," exclaimed one of the lads, " hae ye been
fechtin wi' the cats ? — sic a scrapit face !"

" Wheesht," said Ferguson ; " we owe the illustration to
that, but dinna interrupt the story."

" Fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant,* con-
tinued John, " unco curious, an' fond o' kennin everything,
%a callants will be"

" Hoot, John," said one of the students, interrupting him,
' ' can ve no cut slinrf. man ? T?nV> rironiised last Saturday to

an' ye see the ale an'

gie us, < Fie, let us a' to the Bridal/
the nicht's baith wearin dune."

"The song, Rob, the song ["exclaimed half a dozen voices
at once ; and John's story was lost in the clamour.

" Nay, now," said the good-natured poet, " that's less
than kind; the auld man's stories are aye worth the
hearing, an' he can relish the auld-warld fisher-song wi'
the best o' ye. But we maun hae the story yet."

He struck up the old Scotch ditty " Fie, let us a' to the
Bridal," which he sung with great power and brilliancy ; for
his voice was a richly modulated one, and there was a fulness
of meaning imparted to the words which wonderfully
heightened the effect. " How strange it is," he remarked
to me when he had finished, " that our English neighbours
deny us humour ! The songs of no country equal our Scotch
ones in that quality. Are you acquainted with < The Guid.
wife of Auchtermuchty ?' "

"Well," I replied, "but so are not the English. It
strikes me that, with the exception of Smollet's novels, all
our Scotch humour is locked up in our native tongue. No
man can employ in works of humour any language of which
he is not a thorough master; and few of our Scotch writers,
with all their elegance, have attained the necessary com-
mand of that colloquial English which Addison and Swift
employed when they were merry."

" A braw redd delivery," said John, addressing me. " Are
ye gaun to be a minister, too ?"

" Not quite sure yet," I replied.

" Ah," rejoined the old man, " 'twas better for the Kirk,
when the minister just made himsel ready for it, an' then
waited till he kent whether it wanted him. — There's young
Rob Ferguson beside you"

" Setting oot for the Kirk," said the young poet, inter-
rupting him, " an' yet drinkin ale on Saturday at e'en wi'
old John Hogg."

" Weel, weel, laddie, it's easier for the best o' us to find
fault wi' ithers than to mend oorsels. Ye have the head,
onyhow ; but Jamie Brown tells me it's a doctor ye're gaun
to be, after a'."

" Nonsense, John Hogg — I wonder how a man o' your
standing"

" Nonsense, I grant you," said one of the students ; " but
true enough, for a' that, Bob. Ye see, John, Bob an' I were
at the King's Muirs last Saturday, an' ca'ed at tke pendicle,
in the passing, for a cup o' whey ; when the guidwife tellt
us there was ane o' the callants, who had broken into the
milk-house twa nicht's afore, lyin ill o' a surfeit. 'Danger-
ous case,' said Rob ; ' but let me see him ; I have studied to
small purpose if I know nothing o' medicine, my good
woman.' Weel, the woman was just glad enough to bring
him to the bedside ; an' no wonder — ye never saw a wiser
phiz in your lives — Dr Dumpie's was naething till't ; an',
after he had sucked the head o' his stick for ten minutes,
an' fand the loon's pulse, an' asked mair questions than the
guidwife liked to answer, he prescribed. But, losh ! sic a
prescription ! A day's fasting an' twa ladles o' nettle kail
was the gist o't ; but then there went mair Latin to the tail
o' that, than oor neebor the Doctor ever had to lose."

But I dwell too long on the conversation of this evening.
I feel, however, a deep interest in recalling it to memory.
The education of Ferguson was of a twofold character — he
studied in the schools and among the people ; but it was in
the latter tract alone that he acquired the materials of all
his better poetry ; and I feel as if, for at least one brie!
evening, I was admitted to the privileges of a class-fellow,
and sat Avith him on the same form. The company broke
up a little after ten ; and I did not again hear of John
Hoo-g till I read his elegy, about four years after, among
the^poems of my friend. It is by no means one of the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

happiest pieceg in the volume, nor, it strikes me, highly
characteristic ; but I have often perused it with an interest
very independent of its merits.

CHAPTER III.

But he ii weak— both man and boy
Has been an idler in the land.

WORDSWORTH.

I was attempting to listen, on the evening of the follow-
ing Sunday, to a dull, listless discourse— one of the discourses
so common at this period, in which there was fine writing
without genius, and fine religion without Christianity— when
a person who had just taken his place heside me, tapped
me on the shoulder and thrust a letter into my hand,
was my newly-acquired friend of the previous evening; and
we shook hands heartily under the pew.

" That letter has just been handed me by an acquaintance
from you-r part of the country," he whispered ; " I trust it
contains nothing unpleasant."

I raised it to the light, and, on ascertaining that it was
sealed and edged with black, rose and quitted the church,
followed by my friend. It intimated, in two brief lines,
that my patron, the baronet, had been killed by a fall from
his horse a few evenings before ; and that, dying intestate,
the allowance which had hitherto enabled me to prosecute
my studies necessarily dropped. I crumpled up the paper
in my hand.

"You have learned something very unpleasant," said
Ferguson. " Pardon me — I have no wish to intrude ; but, tf
at all agreeable, I would fain spend the evening with you."
My heart filled, and, grasping his hand, I briefly intimated
the purport of the communication, and we walked out
together in the direction of the ruins.

" It is, perhaps, as hard, Mr Ferguson," I said, " to fall
from one's hopes as from the place to which they pointed. I
was ambitious — too ambitious, it may be — to rise from that
level on which man acts the part of a machine, and tasks
merely his body, to that higher level on which he performs
the proper part of a rational creature, and employs only his
mind. But that ambition need influence me no longer.
My poor mother, too — I had trusted to be of use to her."

" Ah, my friend," said Ferguson, " I can tell you of a
case quite as hopeless as your own — perhaps more so.
But it will make you deem my sympathy the result of mere
selfishness. In scarce any respect do our circumstances
differ."

We had reached the ruins : the evening was calm and
mild as when I had walked out on the preceding one ; but
the hour was earlier, and the sun hung higher over the hill.
A newly-formed grave occupied the level spot in front d
the little ivied corner.

" Let us seat ourselves here," said my companion, " and
I will tell you a story — I am afraid a rather tame one ; for
there is nothing of adventure in it, and nothing of incident,
but it may at least shew you that I am not unfitted to be
your friend. It is now nearly two years since I lost my
father. He was no common man — common neither in
intellect nor in sentiment ; but, though he once fondly hopec
it should be otherwise — for in early youth he indulged in al
the dreams of the poet — he now fills a grave as nameless as
the one before us. He was a native of Aberdeenshire ; but
held, latterly, an inferior situation in the office of the British
Linen Company in Edinburgh, where I was born. Ever
since I remember him, he had awakened too fully to the
realities of life, and they pressed too hard on his spirits, to
leave him space for the indulgence of his earlier fancies
but he could dream for his children, though not for himself
or, as I should perhaps rather say> his children fell heir t
all his more juvenile hopes of fortune, and influence, anc
epace in the world's eye ; — raid, for himself, he indulged in
hopes of a later growth and firmer texture, which pointec

from the present scene of things to the future. I have an
only brother, my senior by several years, a lad of much
energy, both physical and mental ; in brief, one of those
mixtures of reflection and activity which seem best formed
for risin^ in the world. My father deemed him most fitted
for commerce, and had influence enough to get him intro-
duced into the counting-house of a respectable Edinburgh
merchant. I was always of a graver turn— in part, perhaps,
the effect of less robust health— and me he intended for the
Church. I have been a dreamer, Mr Lindsay, from my
earliest years — prone to melancholy, and fond of books and
of solitude ; and the peculiarities of this temperament the
sanguine old man, though no mean judge of character, had
mistaken for a serious and reflective disposition. You are
acquainted with literature, and know something, from books
at least, of the lives of literary men. Judge, then, of his
prospect of usefulness in any profession, who has lived, ever
since he knew himself, among the poets. My hopes, from
my earliest years, have been hopes of celebrity as a writer —
not of wealth, or of influence, or of accomplishing any of
the thousand aims which furnish the great bulk of mankind
with motives. You will laugh at me. _ There is something
so emphatically shadowy and unreal in the object of this
ambition, that even the full attainment of it provokes a
smile. For who does not know

* How vain that second life in others' breath,
The estate which wits inherit after death !'

And what can be more fraught with the ludicrous than an
union of this shadoAvy ambition with mediocre parts and
attainments ! But I digress.

" It is now rather more than three years since I entered
the classes here. I competed for a bursary, and was fortu-
nate enough to secure one. Believe me, Mr Lindsay, I
am little ambitious of the fame of mere scholarship, and yet
I cannot express to you the triumph of that day. I had
seen my poor father labouring far, far beyond his strength,
for my brother and myself — closely engaged during the
day with his duties in the Bank, and copying at night in a
lawyer's office. I had seen, with a throbbing heart, his tall
wasted frame becoming tremulous and bent, and the grey
hair thinning on his temples ; and I now felt that I could
ease him of at least part of the burden. In the excitement
of the moment, I could hope that I was destined to rise in
the world — to gain a name in it and something more. You
know how a slight success grows in importance when we
can deem it the earnest of future good fortune. I met, too,
with a kind and influential friend in one of the professors,
the late Dr Wilkie. Alas! good, benevolent man ! you may
see his tomb yonder beside the wall ; and, on my return
from St Andrew's, at the close of the session, I found my
father on his deathbed. My brother Henry — who had been
unfortunate, and, I am afraid, something worse — had quitted
the counting-house and entered aboard of a man-of-war, as
a common sailor ; and the poor old man, whose heart had
been bound up in him, never held up his head after.

On the evening of my father's funeral, I could have lain
down and died. I never before felt how thoroughly I am
unfitted for the world — how totally I want strength. My
father, I have said, had intended me for the Church ; and,
in my progress onward from class to class, and from school
to college, I had thought but little of each particular step,
as it engaged me for the time, and nothing of the ultimate
objects to which it led. All my more vigorous aspirations
were directed to a remote future and an unsubstantial
shadow. But I had witnessed, beside my father's bed
what had led me seriously to reflect on the ostensible aim
for which I lived and studied ; and the more carefully 1
weighed myself in the balance, the more did I find myself
awanting. You have heard of Mr Brown of the Secession
the author of the " Dictionary of the Bible." He was an
old acquaintance of my father's ; and, on hearirg of his

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

illness, had come all the way from Hadclington to see him.
I felt, for the first time, as, kneeling beside his bed, I heard
my father's breathings becoming every moment shorter
and more difficult, and listened to the prayers of the
clergyman that I had no business in the Church. And
thus I still continue to feel. 'Twere an easy matter to pro-
duce such things as pass for sermons among us, and to go
respectably enough through the mere routine of the profes-
sion ; but I cannot help feeling that, though I might do all
this and more, my duty, as a clergyman, would be still left
undone. I want singleness of aim — I want earnestness of
heart. I cannot teach men effectually how to live well ; I
cannot shew them, with aught of confidence, how they may
die safe. I cannot enter the Church without acting the part
of a hypocrite ; and the miserable part of the hypocrite it
shall never be mine to act. Heaven help me ! I am too
little a practical moralist myself to attempt teaching morals
to others.

" But I must conclude my story, if story it may be called:
— 1 saw my poor mother and my little sister deprived, by my
father's death, of their sole stay, and strove to exert myself
in their behalf. In the daytime I copied in a lawyer's
office ; my nights were spent among the poets. You will
deem it the very madness of vanity, Mr Lindsay ; but I
could not live without my dreams of literary eminence. I
felt that life would be a blank waste without them ; and I
feel so still. I)o not laugh at my weakness, when I say I
would rather live in the memory of my country than enjoy
her fairest lands — that I dread a nameless grave many times
more than the grave itself. But, I am afraid, the life of the
literary aspirant is rarely a happy one ; and I, alas ! am one
of the weakest of the class. It is of importance that the
means of living be not disjoined from the end for which we
live ; and I feel that, in my case, the disunion is complete.
The wants and evils of life are around me ; but the energies
through which those should be provided for, and these
warded off, are otherwise employed. I am like a man
pressing onward through a hot and bloody fight, his breast
open to every blow, and tremblingly alive to the sense of
injury and the feeling of pain, but totally unprepared
either to attack or defend. And then those miserable
depressions of spirits to which all men who draw largely on
their imagination are so subject ; and that wavering irregu-
larity of effort which seems so unavoidably the effect of
pursuing a distant and doubtful aim, and which proves so
hostile to the formation of every better habit — alas ! to a
steady morality itself. But I weary you, Mr Lindsay ;
besides, my story is told. I am groping onward, I know
not Avhither ; and, in a few months hence, when my last
session shall have closed, I shall be exactly where you arc
at present."

He ceased speaking, and there was a pause of several
minutes. I felt soothed and gratified. There was a sweet
melancholy music in the tones of his voice, that sunk to my
very heart ; and the confidence he reposed in me flattered
my pride. " How was it," I at length said, " that you were
the gayest in the party of last night ?"

" I do not know that I can better answer you," he
replied, " than by telling you a singular dream which I had
about the time of my father's death. I dreamed that I had
suddenly quitted the world, and was journeying, by a long
and dreary passage, to the place of final punishment. A
blue, dismal light glimmered along the lower wall of the
vault ; and, from the darkness above, where there flickered
a thousand undefined shapes — things without form or out-
line— I could hear deeply-drawn sighs, and long hollow
groans, and convulsive sobbings, and the prolonged moan-
ings of an unceasing anguish. I was, aware, however,
though I know not how, that these were but the expressions
of a lesser misery, and that the seats of severer torment
were still before me. I went on, and on, and the vault
115 f

widened, and the light increased, and the sounds changed.
There were loud laughters and low mutterings, in the tone
of ridicule ; and shouts of triumph and exultation ; and, in
brief, all the thousand mingled tones of a gay and joyous
revel. Can these, I exclaimed, be the sounds of misery
when at the deepest ? ' Bethink thee," said a shadowy form
beside me — ' bethink thee if it be not so on earth.' And,
as I remembered that it was so, and bethought me of the
mad revels of shipwrecked seamen and of plague-stricken
cities, I awoke. But on this subject you must spare me."

" Forgive me," I said ; " to-morrow, I leave college, and
not with the less reluctance that I must part from you.
But I shall yet find you occupying a place among the
literati of our country, and shall remember, with pride, that
you were my friend."

He sighed deeply. " My hopes rise and fall with -my
spirits," he said ; " find to-night I am melancholy. Do you
ever go to buffets with yourself, Mr Lindsay ? Do you
ever mock, in your sadder moods, the hopes which rendei
you happiest when you are gay ? Ah ! 'tis bitter warfare
when a man contends with Hope ! — when he sees her, with
little aid from the personifying influence, as a thing dis-
tinct from himself — a lying spirit that comes to flatter and
deceive him. It is thus I see her to-night.

" Sec'st thou that grave ? — does mortal know
Aught of the dust that lies below ?
'Tis foul, 'tis damp, 'tis void of form —
A bed where winds the loathsome worm ;
A little heap, mould'ring and brown,
Like that on flowcrless meadow thrown
By mossy stream, when winter reigns
O'er leafless woods and wasted plains :
And yet that brown, damp, formless heap
Once glowed with feelings keen and deep ;
Once eyed the light, once heard each sound
Of earth, air, wave, that murmurs round.
But now, ah ! now, the name it bore,
Sex, age, or form, is known no more.
This, this alone, O Hope ! I know,
That once the dust that lies below,
Was, like myself, of human race,
And made this world its dwelling-place.
Ah ! this, when death has swept away
The myriads of life's present day,
Though bright the visions raised by thee.
Will all my fame, my history be !"

We quitted the ruins and returned to town.

" Have you yet formed," inquired my companion, " any
plan for the future ?"

" I quit St Andrew's," I replied, " to-morrow morning.
I have an uncle the master of a West Indiaman, now in
the Clyde. Some years ago, I had a fancy for the life of a
sailor, which has evaporated, however, with many of my
other boyish fancies and predilections ; but I am strong
and active, and it strikes me there is less competition on
sea at present than on land. A man of tolerable steadiness
and intelligence has a better chance of rising as a sailor
than as a mechanic. I shall set out, therefore,, with my
uncle on his first voyage."

CHAPTER IV.

At first, I thought the swankie didna ill— •

Again I glowr'd, to hear him better still ;

Bauld, sice, an' sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,

Glow'd round the heart, an' glanc'd the soul out through.

ALEXANDER WILSON.

I had seen both the Indies and traversed the wide Pacific,
ere I again set foot on the eastern coast of Scotland. My
uncle, the shipmaster, was dead, and I was still a common
sailor ; but I was light-hearted and skilful in my profession,
and as much inclined to hope as ever. Besides, I had
begun to doubt, and there cannot be a more consoling doubt
when one is unfortunate, whether a man may not enjoy as
much happiness in the lower walks of life as in the upper.
In one of my later voyages, the vessel in which I sailed had
lain for several weeks at Boston in North America — then

86

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

y
h

a scene of those fierce and angry contentions which eventu-
ally separated the colonies from the mother country ; and
•when in this place, I had become acquainted, by the merest
accident in the world, with the brother of my friend the
poet. I was passing through one of the meaner lanes, when
I saw my old college friend, as I thought, looking out at
me from the window of a crazy wooden building — a sort ot
fencing academy, much frequented, I was told, by the
Federalists of Boston. I crossed the lane in two huge strides.

" Mr Ferguson," I said, " Mr Ferguson," for he was
withdrawing his head, " do you not remember me?"

" Not quite sure," he replied ; " I have met with many
sailors in my time ; but I must just see."

He had stepped down to the door ere I had discovered
my mistake. He was a taller and stronger-looking man
than my friend, and his senior apparently by six or eight
years ; but nothing could be more striking than the resem-
blance which he bore to him both in face and figure. I
apologized.

" But have you not a brother, a native of Edinburgh," I
inquired, " wlio studied at St Andrew's about four years
ago? — never before, certainly, did I see so remarkable a like-
ness."

— " As that which I bear to Robert ?" he said. " Happy
to hear it. Robert is a brother of whom a man may well
be proud, and I am glad to resemble him in any way. But
ou must go in with me, and tell me all you know regarding
im. He was a thin pale slip of a boy when I left Scotland —
a mighty reader, and fond of sauntering into by-holes and
corners ; I scarcely knew what to make of him ; but he has
made much of himself. His name has been blown far and
wide within the last two years."

He shewed me through a targe waste apartment, furnished
with a few deal seats, and with here and there, a fencing
foil leaning against the wall, into a sort of closet at the
upper end, separated from the main room by a partition
of undressed slabs. There was a charcoal stove in the
one corner, and a truckle bed in the other ; a few shelves
laden with books ran along the wall ; there was a small
chest raised on a stool immediately below the window, to
serve as a writing desk, and another stool standing beside
it. A few cooking utensils scattered round the- room, and
a corner cupboard, completed the entire furniture of the
place.

" There is a certain limited number born to be rich, Jack,"
said my new companion, " and I just don't happen to be
among them ; but I have one stool for myself, you see, and,
now that I have unshipped my desk, another for a visiter
and so get on well enough."

I related briefly the story of my intimacy with his brother;
and Ave were soon on such terms as to be in a fair way of
emptying a bottle of rum together.

" You remind me of old times," said my new acquaintance.
" I am weary of these illiterate, boisterous, longsided Ameri-
cans, who talk only of politics and dollars. And yet there
are first-rate men among them, too. I met, some years since,
with a Philadelphia printer, whom I cannot help regarding
as one of the ablest, best-informed men I ever conversed
with. But there is nothing like general knowledge among
the average class ; a mighty privilege of conceit, however."

" They are just in that stage," I remarked, " in which it
needs all the vigour of an able man to bring his mind into
anything like cultivation. There must be many more
facilities of improvement ere the mediocritist can develope
himself. He is in the egg still in America, and must sleep
there till the next age. — But when last heard you of your
brother ?"

" Why," he replied, " when all the world heard of him —
with the last number of Ruddiman's Magazine. "Where
can you have been bottled up from literature of late ? Why,
man, Robert stands first among our Scotch poets."

" Ah ! 'tis long since I have anticipated something like
that for him," I said ; " but, for the last two years, I have
seen only tAvo books, Shakspeare and ' The Spectator.
Pray, do shew me some of the magazines."

The magazines were produced ; and I heard, for the first
time, in a foreign land and from the recitation of the poet's
brother, some of the most national and most highly-finished
of his productions. My eyes filled, and my heart wandered
to Scotland and her cottage homes, as, shutting the book, he
repeated to me, in a voice faltering with emotion, stanza
after stanza of the " Farmer's Ingle."

" Do you not see it ? — do you not see it all ?" exclaimed
my companion ; " the wide smoky room, with the bright
turf fire, the blackened rafters shining above, the straw
wrought settle below, the farmer and the farmer's wife,
and auld grannie and the bairns. Never was there truer
painting ; and, oh, how it works on a Scotch heart ! But
hear this other piece."

He read " Sandy and Willie."

" Far, far ahead of Ramsay," I exclaimed. " More ima-
gination, more spirit, more intellect, and as much truth and
nature. Robert has gained his end already. Hurra for
poor old Scotland ! — these pieces must live for ever. But
do repeat to me the ( Farmer's Ingle' once more."

W7e read, one by one, all the poems in the magazine,
dwelling on each stanza, and expatiating on every recol-
lection of home which the images awakened. My com-
panion was, like his brother, a kind, open-hearted man, of
superior intellect ; much less prone to despondency, however,
and of a more equal temperament. Ere we parted, which
was not until next morning, he had communicated to me all
his plans for the future, and all his fondly- cherished hopes
of returning to Scotland with wealth enough to be of use
to his friends. He seemed to be one of those universal
geniuses who do a thousand things well, but want steadi-
ness enough to turn any of them to good account. He
shewed me a treatise on the use of the sword which he had
just prepared for the press, and a series of letters on the
stamp act, which had appeared, from time to time, in one
of the Boston newspapers, and in which he had taken part
with the Americans.

" I make a good many dollars, in these stirring times,"
he said. " All the Yankees seem to be of opinion that
they will be best heard across the water when they have
got arms in their hands, and have learned how to use
them ; and I know a little of both the sword and the
musket. But the warlike spirit is frightfully thirsty, some-
how, and consumes a world of rum ; and so I have not yet
begun to make rich."

He shared with me his supper and bed for the night ;
and, after rising in the morning ere I awoke, and writing a
long letter for Robert, which he gave me in the hope I
might soon meet with him, he accompanied me to the
vessel, then on the eve of sailing, and we parted, as it
proved, for ever. I know nothing of his after life, or how
or where it terminated ; but I have learned that, shortly
before the death of his gifted brother, his circumstances
enabled him to send his mother a small remittance for the
use of the family. He was evidently one of the kind-
hearted, improvident few who can share a very little, and
whose destiny it is to have only a very little to share.

CHAPTER V.

O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts
111 suited law's dry, musty arts !
My curse upon your whunstanc hearts,

Yc Embrugh gentry !
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes

Wad stow'd his pantry !

BURNS.

I visited Edinburgh, for the first time, in the latter part
j of the Autumn of 1773, about two months after I had

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

87

sailed from Boston. It was on a fine calm morning — one of
those clear sunshiny mornings of October, when the gossa-
mer goes sailing about in long cottony threads, so light and
fleecy that they seem the skeleton remains of extinct cloud-
Vts ; and when the distant hills, with their covering of grey
frost rime, seem, through the clear cold atmosphere, as if
chisseled in marble. The sun was rising over the town
through a deep blood-coloured haze — the smoke of a thou-
sand fires ; and the huge fantastic piles of masonry that
stretched along the ridge, looked dim and spectral through
the cloud, like the ghosts of an army of giants. I felt half
a foot taller as I strode on towards the town. It was Edin-
burgh I was approaching — the scene of so many proud
associations to a lover of Scotland ; and I was going to meet
as an early friend one of the first of Scottish poets. I entered
the town. There was a book stall in a corner of the street; and
I turned aside for half a minute to glance my eye over the
books.

" Ferguson's Poems !" 1 exciaimed, taking up a little
volume. " I was not aware they had appeared in a separate
form. How do you sell this ?"

" Just like a' the ither booksellers," said the man who
kept the stall — " that's nane o' the buiks that come dounin
a hurry : — just for the marked selling price." I threw
down the money.

" Could you tell me anything of the writer ?" I said.
have a letter for him from America."

" Oh, that'll be frae his brither Henry, I'll wad; a clever
chield too, but owre fond o' the drap drink, maybe, like Rob
himsel. Baith o' them fine humane chields, though, without
a grain o' pride. Rob takes a stan' wi' me sometimes o' half
an hour at a time, an' we clatter owre the buiks ; an', if I'm
no mistaen, yon's him just yonder — the thin pale slip o' a
lad wi' the broad brow. Ay, an' he's .iuist comin this
way."

' Anything new to-day, Thomas ?" said tnc young man,
coming up to the stall. " I want a cheap second-hand copy
of Ramsay's ' Evergreen ;' and, like a good man as you are,
you must just try and find it for me."

Though considerably altered — for he was taller and
thinner than when at college, and his complexion had
assumed a deep sallow hue — I recognised him at once, and
presented him with the letter.

" Ah ! from brother Henry," he said, breaking it open
and glancing his eye over the contents. " What ! — old college
chum, Mr Lindsay !" he exclaimed, turning to me. " Yes,
sure enough ; how happy I am we should have met ! Come
this way — let us get out of the streets."

We passed hurriedly through the Canongate and along
the front of Holyrood-house, and were soon in the
King's Park, which seemed this morning as if left to
ourselves.

" Dear me, and this is you yourself! — and we have again
met, Mr Lindsay !" said Ferguson — " I thought we were
never to meet more. Nothing, for a long time, has made
me half so glad. And so you have been a sailor for the
last four years. Do let us sit down here in the warm
sunshine, beside St Anthony's Well, and tell me all
your story, and how you happened to meet with brother
Henry."

We sat down, and I briefly related at his bidding a. that
had befallen me since we had parted at St Andrew's, and
how I was still a common sailor, but, in the main, perhaps,
not less happy than many who commanded a fleet.

" Ah, you have been a fortunate fellow," he said ; " you
have seen much and enjoyed much ; and I have been rust-
ing in unhappiness at home. Would that I had gone to
sea along with you !"

" Nay, now, that won't do," I replied. " But you are
merely taking Bacon's method of blunting the edge of envy,
You have scarcely yet attained the years of mature man-

hood, and yet your name has gone abroad over the whole
length and breadth of the land, and over many other lands
besides. 1 have cried over your poems three thousand
miles away, and felt all the prouder of my country for the
sake of my friend. And yet you would fain persuade me
that you wish the charm reversed, and that you were just
such an obscure salt-water man as myself !"

" You remember," said my companion, "the story of the
half-man, half-marble Prince of the Arabian tale. One
part was a living creature, one part a stone ; but the parts
were incorporated, and the mixture was misery. I am just
such a poor unhappy creature as the enchanted Prince of
the story."

" You surprise and distress me," I rejoined. " Have you
not accomplished all you so fondly purposed — realized
even your warmest wishes ? And this too in early life.
Your most sanguine hopes pointed but to a name, which
you yourself, perhaps, was never to hear, but which was to
dwell on men's tongues when the grave had closed over you.
And now the name is gained and you live to enjoy it. 1
see the living part of your lot, and it seems instinct with
happiness ; but in what does the dead, the stony part con-
sist ?"

He shook his head, and looked up mournfully in my
face ; there was a pause of a few seconds. " You, Mr
Lindsay," he at length replied, "• you who are of an equable
steady temperament, can know little, from experience, of
the unhappiness of the man who lives only in extremes ;
who is either madly gay or miserably depressed. Try and
realize the feelings of one whose mind is like a broken
harp — all the medium tones gone, and only the higher and
lower left ; of one, too, whose circumstances seem of a piece
with his mind ; who can enjoy the exercise of his better
powers, and yet can only live by the monotonous drudgery
of copying page after page, in a clerk's office; of one who is
continually either groping his way amid a chill melancholy
fog of nervous depression, or carried headlong, by a wild
gaiety, to all which his better judgment would instruct him
to avoid ; of one who, when he indulges most in the pride
of superior intellect, cannot away with the thought that
that intellect is on the eve of breaking up, and that lie
must yet rate infinitely lower in the scale of rationality
than any of the nameless thousands who carry on the
ordinary concerns of life around him."

I was grieved and astonished, and knew not what to
answer. " You are in a gloomy mood to-day," I at length
said ; " you are immersed in one of the fogs you describe ;
and all the surrounding objects take a tinge of darkness
from the medium through which you survey them. Come,
now, you must make an exertion, and shake off your mel-
ancholy. I have told you all my story, as I best could, and
you must tell me all yours in return."

" Well," he replied, " I shall, though it mayn't be the
best way in the world of dissipating my melancholy. I
think I must have told you, when at College, that I had a
maternal uncle of considerable wealth, and, as the world
goes, respectability, who resided in Aberdeenshire. He
was placed on what one may term the table-land of ^society;
and my poor mother, whose recollections of hiri were
limited to a period when there is warmth in the feelings of
the most ordinary minds, had hoped that he would willingly
exert his influence in my behalf. Much, doubtless, depends
on one's setting out in life ; and it would have bee some-
thing to have been enabled to step into it from a level like
that occupied by my relative. I paid him a visit shortly
after leaving college, and met with apparent kindness. But
I can see beyond the surface, Mr Lindsay; and I soon saw
that my uncle was entirely a different man from the brother
whom my mother remembered. He had risen, by a coi
of slow industry, from comparative poverty, and his feelings
.had worn out in the process- The character was -

case-

88

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

hardened all over; and the polish it bore — for I have
rarely met a smoother man — seemed no improvement. He
was, in brief, one of the class content to dwell for ever
in mere decencies, with consciences made up of the con-
ventional moralities, who think by precedent, bow to public
opinion as their god, and estimate merit by its weight in
guineas."

" And so your visit," I said, " was a very brief one ?"

" You distress me," he replied. " It should have been so;
but it was not. But what could I do ? Ever since my
father's death, I had been taught to consider this man as my
natural guardian ; and I was now unwilling to part with
my last hope. But this is not all. Under much apparent
activity, my friend, there is a substratum of apathetical
indolence in my disposition ; I move rapidly when in
motion ; but when at rest there is a dull inertness in the
character, which the will, when unassisted by passion, is
too feeble to overcome. Poor, weak creature that I am !
I had sitten down by my uncle's fire-side, and felt unwilling
to rise. Pity me, my friend — I deserve your pity — but, oh,
do not despise me !"

" Forgive me, Mr Ferguson," I said ; ' ' I have given you
pain — but surely most unwittingly."

' I am ever a fool," he continued ; " but my story lags ;
and, surely, there is little in it on which it were pleasure to
dwell. I sat at this man's table for six months, and saw,
day after day, his manner towards me becoming more con-
strained, and his politeness more cold ; and yet I staid on,
till at last my clothes were worn threadbare, and he began
to feel that the shabbiness of the nephew affected the
respectability of the uncle. . His friend the soap-boiler, and
his friend the oil-merchant, and his friend the manager of
the hemp manufactory, with their wives and daughters — all
people of high standing in the world — occasionally honoured
Is table with their presence ; and how could he be other
than ashamed of mine ? It vexes me that I cannot even
yet be cool on the subject ; it vexes me that a creature so
sordid, should have so much the power to move me ; but
I cannot — I cannot master my feelings. He — he told
me — and with whom should the blame rest, but with the
weak, spiritless thing who lingered on in mean bitter depend-
ence, to hear what he had to tell ? — he told me that all his
friends were respectable, and that my appearance was no
longer that of a person whom he could wish to see at his
table, or introduce to any one as his nephew. And I had
staid to hear all this !

" I can hardly tell you how I got home. I travelled, stage
after stage, along the rough dusty roads, with a weak and
feverish body, and almost despairing mind. On meeting
with my mother, I could have laid my head on her bosom,
and cried like a child. I took to my bed in a high fever,
and trusted that all my troubles were soon to terminate ;
but, when the die was cast, it turned up life. I resumed
my old miserable employments — for what could I else? — and,
that I might be less unhappy in the prosecution of them,
my old amusements too. I copied during the day, in a
clerk's office, that I might live, and wrote during the night,
that I might be known. And I have, in part, perhaps,
attained my object. I have pursued and caught hold of the
shadow on which my heart had been so long set : and if it
prove empty, and untangible, and unsatisfactory, like every
other shadow, the blame surely must rest with the pursuer,
not with the thing pursued. I weary you, Mr Lindsay ;
but one word more. There are hours when the mind,
weakened by exertion, or by the teazing monotony of an
smployment which tasks without exercising it, can no
longer exert its powers, and when, feeling that sociality is a
Ifjw of our nature, we seek the society of our fellow- men
With a creature so much the sport of impulse as I am, it is
of these hours of weakness that conscience takes most note.
God help me ! I have been told that life is short ; but

stretches on, and on, and on before ine ; and I know not
how it is to be passed through."

My spirits had so sunk during this singular conversation,
that I had no heart to reply.

" You are silent, Mr Lindsay," said the poet ; " I have
made you as melancholy as myself; but look round you,
and say if ever you have seen a lovelier spot. See how
richly the yellow sunshine slants along the green sides of
Arthur's Seat, and how the thin blue smoke, that has come
floating from the town, fills the bottom of yonder grassy dell,
as if it were a little lake. Mark, too. how boldly the cliffs
stand out along its sides, each with its little patch of shadow.
And here, beside us, is St Anthony's AVell, so famous in song,
coming gushing out to the sunshine, and then gliding away
through the grass, like a snake. Had the Deity purposed
that man should be miserable, he would surely never have
placed him in so fair a world. Perhaps much of our unhap-
piness originates in our mistaking our proper scope, ana
thus setting out, from the first, with a false aim."

" Unquestionably," I replied, " there is no man who has
not some part to perform ; and, if it be a great and uncom-
mon part, and the powers which fit him for it proportionably
great and uncommon, nature would be in error could he
slight it with impunity. See, there is a wild bee bending
the flower beside you. Even that little creature has a
capacity of happiness and misery ; it derives its sense of
pleasure from whatever runs in the line of its instincts —
its experience of unhappiness from whatever thwarts and
opposes them ; and can it be supposed that so wise a law
should regulate the instincts of only inferior creatures? No,
my friend, it is surely a law of our nature also."

" And have you not something else to infer ?" said the
poet.

" "Yes," I replied, " that you are occupied differently from
what the scope and constitution of your mind demand ;
differently both in your hours of employment and of re-
laxation. But do take heart — you will yet find your pro-
per place, and all shall be well."

" Alas ! no, my friend," said he, rising from the sward.
lc I could once entertain such a hope ; but I cannot now.
My mind is no longer what it was to me in my happier
days — a sort of terra-incognita, without bounds or limits.
I can see over and beyond it, and have fallen from all my
hopes regarding it. It is not so much the gloom of present
circumstances that disheartens me, as a depressing know-
ledge of myself — an abiding conviction that I am a weak
dreamer, unfitted for every occupation of live — and not less
so for the greater employments of literature than for any of
the others. I feel that I am a little man, and a little poet,
with barely vigour enough to make one-half effort at a time;
but wholly devoid of the sustaining will — that highest
faculty of the highest order of minds — which can direct a
thousand vigorous efforts to the accomplishment of one
important object. Would that I could exchange my half
celebrity — and it can never be other than a half celebrity — •
for a temper as equable and a fortitude as unshrinking as
yours ! But I weary you with my complaints : I am a
very coward; and you will deem me as selfish as I am
weak."

We parted. The poet, sadly and unwillingly, went to
copy deeds in the office of the commissary clerk, and I,
almost reconciled to obscurity and hard labour, to assist in
unlading a Baltic trader in the harbour of Leith.
(To be continued.)

WILSON'S

arraMtt'onarg, an* £masmatt&e

TALES 01 THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON.

(Concluded.)

CHAPTER VI.

" Speech without aim and without end employ." — CRABBE.

A.FTER the lapse of nine months, I again returned to
Edinburgh. During that period, I had been so shut out
from literature and the world, that I had heard nothing of
my friend the poet ; and it was with a beating heart I left
the vessel, on my first leisure evening, to pay him a visit.
It was about the middle of July ; the day had been close
and sultry, and the heavens overcharged with grey ponderous
clouds ; and, as I passed hurriedly along the walk which
leads from Leith to Edinburgh, I could hear the newly
awakened thunder, bellowing far in the south, peal after peal,
like the artillery of two hostile armies. I reached the door
of the poet's humble domicile, and had raised my hand to
the knocker, when I heard some one singing from within,
in a voice by far the most touchingly mournful I had ever
listened to. The tones struck on my heart; and a frightful
suspicion crossed my mind, as I set down the knocker, that
the singer was no other than my friend. But in what
wretched circumstances ! what fearful state of mind ! I
shuddered as I listened, and heard the strain waxing louder
and yet more mournful, and could distinguish that the
words were those of a simple old ballad : —

" ' O Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

An' shake the green leaves aff the tree ?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come,

An' tak a life that wearies me ?' "

I could listen no longer, but raised the latch and went in.
The evening was gloomy, and the apartment ill lighted;
but I could see the singer, a spectral-looking figure, sitting
on o bed in the corner, with the bedclothes wrapped round
his shoulders, and a napkin deeply stained with blood on
his head. An elderly female, who stood beside him, was
striving to soothe him, and busied from time to time in ad-
justing the clothes, which were ever and anon falling off, as
he nodded his head in time to the music. A young girl of
great beauty sat weeping at the bed-foot.

" O dearest Robert," said the woman, ' ' you will destroy
your poor head ; and Margaret your sister, whom you used
to love so much, will break her heart. Do lie down, dearest,
and take a little rest. Your head is fearfully gashed, and
if the bandages loose a second time, you will bleed to death.
Do, dearest Robert, for your poor old mother, to whom you
were always so kind and dutiful a son till now — for your
poor old mother's sake, do lie down."

The song ceased for a moment, and the tears came burst-
ng from my eyes as the tune changed, and he again sang :•—
" ' O mither dear, make ye my bed,
For my heart it's flichterin sair ;
An', oh, gin I've vex'd ye, mither dear,

I'll never vex ye mair.
I've staid ar'out the lang dark nicht,

I' the sleet an' the plashy rain ;
But, mither dear, make ye my bed,
An* I'll ne'er gang oot again." "

"Dearest, dearest Robert," continued the poor, heart-
broken woman, " do lie down — for your poor old mother's
sake, do lie down."

116. VOL. III.

"No, no," he exclaimed, in a hurried voice, « not just now,
mother, not just now. Here is my friend, Mr Lindsay
come to see me— my true friend, Mr Lindsay, the sailor,
who has sailed all round and round the world ; and I have
much much to ask him : A chair, Margaret, for Mr Lindsay.
I must be a preacher like John Knox, you know — like the
great John Knox, the Reformer of a nation — and Mr Lindsay
knows all about him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr Lindsay."

I am not ashamed to say it was with tears, and in a voice
faltering with emotion, that I apologized to the poor
woman for my intrusion at such a time. "Were it otherwise,
I might well conclude my heart grown hard as a piece of
the nether millstone.

" I had known Robert at College," I said — " had loved
and respected him ; and had now come to pay him a visit,
after an absence of several months, wholly unprepared for
finding him in his present condition." And it would seem
that my tears pled for me, and proved to the poor afflicted
woman and her daughter, by far the most efficient part of
my apology.

" All my friends have left me now, Mr Lindsay," said the
unfortunate poet — " they have all left me now ; they love
this present world. "We were all going down, down, down ;
there was the roll of a river behind us ; it came bursting over
the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming, down upon us ; and,
though the fog was thick and dark below — far below, in the
place to which we were going — I could see the red fire shin-
ing through — the red, hot, unquenchable fire ; and we were
all going down, down, doAvn. Mother, mother, tell Mr Lind-
say I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow. Careless
creature that I am — life is short, and I have lost much time ;
but I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow, and
shall come forth a preacher of the word."

The thunder which had hitherto been muttering at a
distance — each peal, however, nearer and louder than the
preceding one — now began to roll over-head, and the light-
ning, as it passed the window, to illumine every object within.
The hapless poet stretched out his thin wasted arm, as if
addressing a congregation from the pulpit: —

" There were the flashings of lightning," he said, " and
the roll of thunder ; and the trumpet waxed louder and
louder. And around the summit of the mountain were the
foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell brown and
dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the wild
beasts lay trembling in their dens. But, lo ! where the sun
breaks through the opening of the cloud, there is the glitter
of tents — the glitter of ten thousand tents that rise over
the sandy waste, thick as waves of the sea. And there there
is the voice of the dance, and of the revel, and the winding
of horns, and the clash of cymbals. Oh, sit nearer me, dearest
mother, for the room is growing dark, dark ; and, oh, my poor
head!

' The lady sat on the castle wa',

Looked owre baith dale and down,
And then she spied Gil-Morice head1

Come steering through the town.'

Do, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and
do hold it fast ere it part. How fearfully — oh, how fearfully
it aches! — and oh, how it thunders !" He sunk backward
on the pillow, apparently exhausted. " Gone, gone, gone '

90

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

he muttered ; " my mind gone for ever. But God's will be
done."

I rose to leave the room ; for I could restrain my feelings
no longer.

" Stay, Mr Lindsay," said the poet, in a feeble voice ; " I
hear the rain dashing on the pavement ; you must not go till
it abates. Would that you could pray beside me !— but, no —
you are not like the dissolute companions who have now all
left me, but you are not yet fitted for that; and, alas! I
cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see that there be
-prayers at my lykewake ; for —

' Her lykewake, it was piously spent

In social prayer and praise,
Performed by judicious men,

Who stricken were In days.

' And many a heavy, heavy heart

Was in that mournful place;
And many a weary, weary thought

On her who slept in peace.'

They will come all to my lykewake, mother, won't they ? —
yes, all, though they have left me now. Yes, and they will
come far to see my grave. I was poor, very poor, you
know, and they looked down upon me ; and I was no son
or cousin of theirs, and so they could do nothing for me.
Oh, but they might have looked less coldly ! But they will
all come to my grave, mother ; they will come all to my

frave ; and they will say — c Would he were living now to
now how kind we are !' But they will look as coldly as
ever on the living poet beside them — yes, till they have
broken his heart ; and then they will go to his grave too.
O dearest mother, do lay your cool hand on my brow."

He lay silent and exhausted, and, in a few minutes, I
could hope, from the hardness of his breathing, that he had
fallen asleep.

" How long," I inquired of his sister, in a low whisper,
" has Mr Ferguson been so unwell, and what has injured
his head ?"

" Alas !" said the girl, " my brother has been unsettled
in mind for nearly the last six months. We first knew it
one evening on his coming home from the country, where
he had been for a few days with a friend. He burnt a large
heap of papers that he had been employed on for weeks
before — songs and poems that his friends say were the
finest things he ever wrote ; but he burnt them 'all, for
he was going to be a preacher of the word, he said, and it
did not become a preacher of the word to be a writer of
light rhymes. And, O sir ! his mind has been carried ever
since ; but he has been always gentle and affectionate, and
his sole delight has lain in reading the Bible. Good Dr
Erskine, of the Greyfriars, often comes to our house, and
sits with him for hours together, for there are times when his
mind seems stronger than ever, and he says wonderful
things, that seem to hover, the minister says, between the
extravagance natural to his present sad condition, and the
higher flights of a philosophic genius. And we had hoped
that he was getting better ; but, 0 sir, our hopes have had
a sad ending. He went out, a few evenings ago, to call on
an old acquaintance ; and, in descending a stair, missed foot-
ing, and fell to the bottom ; and his head has been fear-
fully injured by the stones. He has been just as you have
Been him ever since ; . and, oh ! I much fear he cannot now
recover. Alas ! my poor brother ! — never, never was there a
more affectionate heart."

CHAP. VII.

A lowly muse !
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.

I returned to the vessel with a heavy heart ; and it was
nearly three months from this time, ere I again set foot in
Edinburgh. Alas 1 for my unfortunate friend ! He was
now an inmate of the asylum, and on the verge of dissolu-

| tion. I was thrown, by accident, shortly after my arrival at
this time, into the company of one of his boon companions.
I had gone into a tavern with a brother sailor — a shrewd,
honest skipper, from the north country ; and, finding the
place occupied by half a dozen young fellows, who were
growing noisy over their liquor, I would have immediately
gone out again, had I not caught, in the passing, a few
words regarding my friend. And so, drawing to a side-
table, I sat down.

" Believe me," said one of the topers, a dissolute-looking
young man, " it's all over with Bob Ferguson — all over ;
and I knew it from the moment he grew religious. Had
old Brown tried to convert me, I would have broken
his face."

" What Brown ?" inquired one of his companions.

" Is that all you know ?" rejoined the other. '' Why,
John Brown of Haddington, the Seceder. Bob was at
Haddington last year, at the election; and, one morning,
when in the horrors, after holding a rum night of it, who
should he meet in the churchyard but old John Brown ? —
he writes, you know, a big book on the Bible. Well, he
lectured Bob at a pretty rate, about election and the call,
I suppose ; and the poor fellow has been mad ever since.
Your health, Jamie. For my own part, I'm a free-will
man, and detest all cant and humbug."

" And what has come of Ferguson now ?" asked one of
the others.

" Oh, mad, sir, mad," rejoined the toper — f< reading the
Bible all day, and cooped up in the asylum yonder. 'Twas
I who brought him to it. — But, lads, the glass has been
standing for the last half-hour. — 'Twas I and Jack
Robinson who brought him to it, as I say. He was
getting wild ; and so we got a sedan for him, and trumped
up a story of an invitation for tea from a lady, and
he came with us as quietly as a lamb. But, if you could
have heard the shriek he gave when the chair stopped, and
he saw where we had brought him ! I never heard any-,
thing half so horrible — it rung in my ears for a week after ;
and then, how the mad people in the upper rooms
howled and gibbered in reply, till the very roof echoed !
People say he is getting better ; but, when I last saw him,
he was as religious as ever, and spoke so much about
heaven that it was uncomfortable to hear him. Great loss
to his friends, after all the expense they have been at with
his education."

" You seem to have been intimate with Mr Ferguson," I
said.

" Oh, intimate with Bob !" he rejoined ; " we were hand
and glove, man. I have sat with him, in Lucky Middle-
mass's, almost every evening, for two years; and I have given
him hints for some of the best things in his book. 'Twas I
who tumbled down the cage in the meadows, and began
breaking the lamps.

' Ye who oft finish «are in Lethe's cup,
Who love to swear, and roar, and hetp it up,
List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight •
Is sleep all day, and riot-all the night.'

There's spirit for you ! But Bob was never sound at bottom ;
andl have told him so. ' Bob,' I have said, ' Bob, you're but a
hypocrite after all, man — without half the spunk you pretend
to. Why don't you take a pattern by me, who fear nothing
and believe only the agreeable ? But, poor fellow, he had
weak nerves, and a church-going propensity, that did him
no good ; and you see the effects. 'Twas all nonsense, Tom,
of his throwing the squib into the Glassite meeting-house.
Between you and I, that was a cut far beyond him in his
best days, poet as he was. 'Twas I who did it, man, and
never was there a cleaner row in auld Reekie."

"Heartless, contemptible puppy!" said my comrade, the
sailor, as we left the room. " Your poor friend must be ill,
indeed, if he be but half as insane as his quondam com-
panion. But he cannot : there is no madness like that of

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the heart. _What could have induced a man of genius to
associate with a thing so thoroughly despicable ?"

" The same misery, Miller," I said, «« that brings a man
acquainted with strange bedfellows."

CHAP. VIII.

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,

By far my elder brother in the muses,

With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! — BURNS.

The asylum in which my unfortunate friend was confined
at this time the only one in Edinburgh, was situated in an
angle of the city wall. It was a dismal-looking mansion
shut in on every side, by the neighbouring houses, from the
view of the surrounding country ; and so effectually covered
up from the nearer street, by a large building in front, that
it seemed possible enough to pass a lifetime in Edinburgh
without coming to the knowledge of its existence. I shud-
dered as I looked up to its blackened walls, thinly sprinkled
with miserable looking windows, barred with iron, and
thought of it as a sort of burial-place of dead minds. Bui
it was a Golgotha, which, with more than the horrors of the
grave, had neither its rest nor its silence. I was startled, ai
I entered the cell of the hapless poet, by a shout of laughter
from a neighbouring room, which was answered from a
dark recess behind me, by a fearfully-prolonged shriek,
and the clanking of chains. The mother and sister oi
Ferguson were sitting beside his pallet, on a sort of stone
settle, which stood out from the wall ; and the poet himself,
weak, and exhausted, and worn to a shadow, but appa-
rently in his right mind, lay extended on the straw. He
made an attempt to rise as I entered ; but the effort was
above his strength, and, again lying down, he extended his
hand.

" This is kind, Mr Lindsay," he said ; " it is ill for me
to be alone in these days ; and yet I have few visitors, save
my poor old mother, and Margaret. But who cares for the
unhappy ?"

I sat down on the settle beside him, still retaining his
hand. " I have been at sea, and in foreign countries/' I
said, " since I last saw you, Mr Ferguson, and it was only
this morning I returned ; but believe me there are many,
many of your countrymen, who sympathize sincerely in
your affliction, and take a warm interest in your recovery."

He sighed deeply. " Ah," he replied, " I know too well
the nature of that sympathy. You never find it at the
bedside of the sufferer — it evaporates in a few barren
expressions of idle pity ; and yet, after all, it is but a paying
the poet in kind. He calls so often on the world to sympa-
thize over fictitious misfortune, that the feeling wears out,
and becomes a mere mood of the imagination ; and, with
this light, attenuated pity of his own weaving, it regards his
own real sorrows. Dearest mother, the evening is damp
and chill — do gather the bedclothes round me, and sit on
my feet ; they are so very cold and so dead, that they
cannot be colder a week hence."

" O Robert, why do you speak so ?" said the poor woman,
as she gathered the clothes round him, and sat on his feet.
" You know you are coming home to-morrow/'

" To-morrow!" he said — "if I see to-morrow, I shall have
completed my twenty-fourth year — a small part, surely, of
the threescore and ten ; but what matters it when 'tis past ?"

" You were ever, my friend, of a melancholy tempera-
ment," I said, " and too little disposed to hope. Indulge
in brighter views of the future, and all shall yet be well."

" I can now hope that it shall," he said *•' Yes, all shall
be well with me — and that very soon. But, oh, how this
nature of ours shrinks from dissolution ! — yes, and all the
lower natures too. You remember, mother, the poor
starling that was killed in the room beside us? Oh, how

enemy, and filled the whole

it struggled with its ruthless

91

place with its shrieks of terror and agony. And yet, poor
little thing ! it had been true, all life long, to the laws of
its nature, and had no sins to account for, and no judge to
meet. There is a shrinking of heart as I look before me,
and yet I can hope that all shall yet be well with me— and
that very soon. Would that I had been wise in time !
Would that I had thought more and earlier of the things
which pertain to my eternal peace ! more of a living soul,
and less of a dying name ! But, oh, 'tis a glorious provi-
sion, through which a way of return is opened up even at
the eleventh hour !"

We sat round him in silence ; an indescribable feeling of
awe pervaded my whole mind, and his sister was affected
to tears.

" Margaret," he said, in a feeble voice — " Margaret, you
will find my Bible in yonder little recess ; 'tis all I have
to leave you ; but keep it, dearest sister, and use it, and,
in times of sorrow and suffering, that come to all, you wiL
know how to prize the legacy of your poor brother. Many,
many books do well enough for life ; but there is only one
of any value when we come to die.

" You have been a voyager of late, Mr Lindsay," he
continued, " and I have been a voyager too. I have been
journeying in darkness and discomfort, amid strange un-
earthly shapes of dread and horror, with no reason to direct
and no will to govern. Oh, the unspeakable unhappiness
of these wanderings ! — these dreams of suspicion, and fear,
and hatred, in which shadow and substance, the true and
the false, were so wrought up and mingled together, that
they formed but one fantastic and miserable whole. And,
oh ! the unutterable horror of every momentary return to a
recollection of what I had been once, and a sense of what
I had become ! Oh, when I awoke amid the terrors of the
night — when I turned me on the rustling straw, and heard
the wild wail and yet wilder laugh — when I heard and
shuddered, and then felt the demon in all his might coming
over me, till I laughed and wailed with the others — oh,
the misery! the utter misery! — But 'tis over, my friend —
'tis all over ; a few, few tedious days, a few, few weary
nights, and all my sufferings shall be over."

I had covered my face with my hands, but the tears came
bursting through my fingers ; the mother and sister of the
poet . bbed aloud.

"Why sorrow for me, sirs?" he said; "why grieve for me?
I am well, quite well, and want for nothing. But 'tis cold,
oh, 'tis very cold, and the blood seems freezing at my heart.
Ah, but there is neither pain nor cold where I am going,
and I trust it shall be well with my soul. Dearest, dearest
mother, I always told you it would come to this at last."

The keeper had entered to intimate to us that the hour
for locking up the cells was already past, and we now
rose to leave the place. I stretched out my hand to my
unfortunate friend ; he took it in silence, and his thin
attenuated fingers felt cold within my grasp, like those of a
corpse. His mother stooped down to embrace him.

" Oh, do not go yet, mother," he said — " do not go yet—
do not leave me ; but it must be so, and I only distress you.
Pray for me, dearest mother, and, oh, forgive me ; I have
been a grief and a burden to you all life long; but I ever
oved you, mother ; and, oh, you have been kind, kind and
"orgiving — and now your task is over. May God bless and
reward you\ Margaret, dearest Margaret, farewell !"

We parteu, and, as it proved, for ever. Robert Ferguson
expired during the night; and Avhen the keeper entered
the cell next morning, to prepare him for quitting the
asylum, all that remained of this most hapless of the child-
ren of genius, was a pallid and wasted corpse, that lay
stiffening on the straw. I am now a very old man, and the
eelings wear out; but I find that my heart is even yet
iusceptible of emotion, and that the source of tears is not
yet dried up.

TALES OF THE BOBBERS.

THE ATTORNEY

SIR WILLIAM SOMMERVILLE, of Burnhaugh, in the shire
of Perth, was knighted by King Charles I., in consequence of
some signal services rendered to the cause of that unhappy
monarch. The estate of Burnhaugh came to him through
his mother, who was distantly related to the family of
Wellwood, residing in the neighbourhood — a place suited to
satisfy every feeling capable of being excited by rural
beauties, from the hilarity of the glittering lake, covered
with the gay and majestic swan, to the sombre romance of
the deep thicket, where ruins raise their grey heads, elo-
quent chroniclers of the things of other years.

Sir William was reported to have been in his early youth
a rover, and it was alleged that living evidence still re-
mained of his illicit amours ; but these things were so well
concealed, through the agency of his man of business — a
writer in Perth of the name of Peter Semple, who took
upon him the various duties of keeping his cash, conscience,
and title-deeds — that very few persons knew much concern-
ing them.

Having laid aside the follies of youth, when he became no
longer young, Sir William married a daughter of a very
rich merchant in London, with whom he got a handsome
fortune, which she inherited as well from her father as from
a prior husband; for she had married, before, a gentleman of
the name of William Apsley. By her first marriage, she
had one son called after his father — a fine boy, who shared
the affections of his stepfather, to an equal extent with his
own children ; for Sir William had by his wife two
daughters, called Sarah and Jean. The parties lived to-
gether in the enjoyment of all the pleasures which affluence
can bestow ; nor were they destitute of the enjoyments
arising from the cultivation of the domestic affections, the
true source of real happiness upon earth. Their family was
brought up in the fear of God and love to their fellow
creatures — having an excellent example shewn them by
their mother; and Sir William himself, having early scattered
the poisoned leaves of his youthful passions, and set forth
in his manhood new buds of better promise, paid proper
attention to the morals of his children ; so that a better re-
gulated and a happier family than that in the large mansion
of Burnhaugh, could seldom be met with in happy Scotland
or merry England.

Sir William, indeed, owed to his lady what is more often
due to the salutary disgust of satiety, producing, as it so
often does, a new and increased affection for the virtues
which adorn social life. She got him in the heyday of un-
restrained libertinism, when it falls to the lot of a wife
either to reclaim her husband, or send him back, with
increased appetite, to the haunts of debauchery, made, to
many, more inviting by the very circumstance which should
render them more disgusting — viz., that, by the marriage
obligation, they become a thing prohibited. By exhibiting
to him the natural colours of the qualities of human nature
generally denominated virtues, deprived entirely of the
factitious attributes whereby they are sometimes made to
assume the appearance of unsubstantial forms, if not of
repulsive and self-denying ordinances, she contrived to con-
rince him that vice is only, in some instances, more pleasant
for a time, (without regard to consequences,) because it
boasts the character of being an outlaw — a character,
whether investing men or moral attributes, at all times
pleasing to high-spirited youth — but truly requiring less real
fortitude to acquire, than what is necessary to form a good
member of society of the smallest grade that could be men-
tioned. Won by the practice and preaching of such a fair
moral enthusiast as Lady Sommerville> Sir William forgot
his former extravagances, and became a good and loving
husband. The feelings of a father, acting, by the instinct-
ive force of pure nature, aided the scheme of the good

lady ; and, beyond all these, Sir William felt the virtuous in-
fluences of the secret breathings of the beauties of Burnhaugh
more powerful than systems of moral philosophy, in reclaim-
ing his heart to the feeling and practice of what is good and
creditable in a husband, a father, and a citizen of the world.

Not contented with exhibiting to his children an example
of a good parent, Sir William had taken into his house a
clergyman, for the purpose of perfecting the education of
his children, as well as instilling into their minds the prin-
ciples of the religion of Christ. That person was Stephen
Semple, the son of his agent and factor — a man whose attain-
ments in literature were undoubtedly great, but who put
before either the immortal things of another world or the
fame of scientific or literary acquirements, what are by
some called the good things of this life. This man had
more cunning at command than generally belongs to his
cloth. A girl, reputed to be an orphan, called Lucy Gray
was brought up with Stephen — a creature of great interest,
from her beauty and symplicity of character; and there
were not wanting some to allege that Semple would
not be disinclined to a match between his son and this
orphan, though why the character of the money-making
scribe should, in this instance, belie itself, (Lucy having
no money,) was not easy to account for. Stephen Semple
had been promised by Sir William, a kirk and a good living,
as soon as he could afford to let him leave his family, who
were now fast growing up to mature age.

Lucy Gray, having once been sent a message to Burn-
haugh, was seen by William Apsley, and struck his young
fancy with that electric feeling which love's first dart
carries on its maiden feather. The first night after they
met, the young man's mind was entirely occupied by that
curious process whereby the fancy having got possession
of the image of the natural object which excited it, invests
it with those imaginary attributes without which true love
never exists in any eminent degree ; and the result was
what may have been expected — a strong, enthusiastic
affection, which saw nothing in the simple and unaffected
maiden, but qualities which she never dreamed of, as belong-
ing to her in a greater proportion than to other young
women. On the first occasion which presented itself, he
intercepted the unconscious Lucy, when returning from
Burnhaugh to Perth, near the romantic spot called the
" weeping mother's fountain," in consequence of its con-
taining a very old and fantastic representation of Niobe, with
the tears of a mother's tenderness gushing in rather too
great abundance from her eyes. Lucy's simplicity saw no
harm in sitting down by the side of the fountain to rest
herself, though young William Apsley sat near her. On
one occasion the youthful pair were interrupted — the in-
truders were Peter Semple and his son Stephen. They
spoke in half whispers ; but with so much passion that
their voices were, in the deep silence of the place, perhaps
better heard than is often the fuller sound of unrestrained
and unimpassioned speech.

" Ye ken weel enough, Steenie," said Peter, " that a' my
hopes in this warld depend upon this scheme. I hae
thought of it when I should hae slept — I hae dreamed of it
when I should hae waked. My life has been devoted to it,
as the hopes o' a sinner are directed to the land o' promise.
It has become the light o' my existence, even as the sun-
beam which shews us the flower, gives it also the colour by
which it becomes sae pleasant in our eyes. To come mair
hame, it has been to me as the days o' the lang prescription
are to the holder o' a wadset, wha has possessed thirty-nine
years, every dav making the hope o' the expiry o' the forty
years mair certain, till the last stroke o' the bell tells him he is
a proprietor in fee simple. .Noo, my guid Steenie, how stands
Sir William's conscience? Ye ken your wark — ye were to
hauld him to the Bible o' which he has become sae fond,
the case o' a' early sinners • and it was for that purpose and

TALES OF THE BORDERS

93

the object to be thereby effected, that I got ye into the
house o' Burnhaugh. Our plan depends entirely upon, and
can succeed allenarly by and through Sir William's incapa-
bility o' swallowing an oath. If he swears that he never
promised to marry Helen, then the game is up, and he has
consigned himsel to that place whar there is nae expiry o'
the legal, as we lawyers say, and whar the cook's remedy for
a burn — that is, the fire itsel — nae langer cures. But, if he
admits on oath that he did mak the promise, then, Steenie,
then, my man, the sun o' oor prosperity shall cast nae shadow
owre the bonny shaws o' Burnhaugh, an' the name o' Semple
may tak precedence o' Sommerville. But it a' depends upon
you, Steenie — you are a maist important instrument : ye
maun tak advantage o' Sir William's inclination to religious
enthusiasm ; blow the flame wi' a' the wind o' the leaves o'
the meikle Bible that lies in the green chamber, and gie a'
the force o' your lungs to mak it burn. They say he is
beginning to look on the ground as he walks, to speak to
himself, to hunt for lean game, that he may exercise
charity, and to be in at the death o' sinners, that he may
defend them against the fangs o' an evil conscience — waur,
a thousand times, than the tusks o' his stag hounds : — a'
guid signs, Steenie. What say ye, my man ?"

" It is true, father," answered the son, " that Sir William
is fast falling into the slough of fanaticism; and I have the
merit of hastening, though not of causing, that event. There
are several old sins that seem to follow him, like the hounds
you have mentioned ; for he groans often in spirit, cries
like a man flying from a pursuing and avenging angel, and
seeks relief in the heart of that large Bible whose pneumatic
powers you have just mentioned. Then is my time for
working on him : the terrors of hell lose none of their fear-
ful attributes in the hands of Stephen Semple. He is
gradually getting weaker and weaker under the influence of
a superstition which I will nourish till he lies down and
cries, like David, that his sins gape upon him with their
mouths, as a ravening and roaring lion. He is already so
much in the power of the fear which the Bible begets upon
a sinner of weak nerves, that I am satisfied he is even now
ready for our purpose. He will not, I think, parry the
oath you have in preparation for him, even were it to pro-
duce more evils, in a worldly point of view, than will inevit-
ably proceed from it. How did he swear as to the old debt
due to Drybarns ?"

" Just as I thought he would swear," answered the attor-
ney. " I got auld Drybarns to prosecute Sir William for that
debt, by pretending to him that he would never get his
money. I then pleaded, in the name of Sir William, that
the debt was owre auld, or, as we say in law, prescribed,
whereupon it became necessary for him to swear. He
swore at once that the debt was a just ane. A' this I
did to test his conscience, and to ascertain whether he will
swear true or fause in the great case about which we are
scheming. The debt due to Drybarns is nae trifle ; and
I think the oath in that case is a guid specimen o' what we
may expect in oor ain."

William recounted, as nearly as he could recollect, the ex-
traordinary conversation he had heard between Peter Semple
and his son, and concluded by asking his mother, if she
could understand what was the object of the parties. Lady
Sommerville appeared to be sunk in deep thought. She
declined saying anything to William, requesting him merely
to be cautious in mentioning to any one what he had heard,
however unintelligible it might be to him, and promising
to explain further to him her thoughts at another time.
William was soon again too deeply involved in his feelings
of love, to recollect much of what had passed.

Lady Sommerville found, in William's narrative, many
things which were capable of forming curious combinations
with her previous thoughts and observations. She had not
been slow to perceive that the meetings of Semple and his

son were more frequent ancf more secret than mere affection
required; and their frequency and secrecy had latterly greatly
increased. She had observed the incomprehensible efforts
continually made by Stephen, to involve Sir William in
discussions regarding the solemnity of oaths, and their awful
sanctions ; but, while she considered this strange, she could
not connect it with any object. She was satisfied that
there was more in these efforts than the mere gratuitous
love of explaining divine truths; for the triumph of
Stephen, when he thought he had impressed Sir William
with a deep sense of the awful nature of a contravention
of the ninth commandment, or of false swearing in general,
was accompanied by a glow of satisfaction, which the selfish
nature of the man never exhibited, unless when something
was mixed up with his feelings, which had some connection
with his own interest. The incessant workings of this ser-
vant of heaven had, she plainly saw, taken from Sir
William much of his former contentment and good nature.
A physical debility of nerves, to which his early habits had
consigned him, made him the victim of superstitious fears ;
and the chief of these, the dread of punishment for the sins
done in the body, had latterly become a waking and sleep-
ing incubus, which deprived him of peace and made him
an easy victim in the hands of any person who pretended
to a knowledge of religious truth. All her efforts to count-
eract the effects of Semple's workings, were vain. Sir
William would hear nothing against his favourite servant
of heaven ; and he did not hesitate to say, in answer to the
gentle admonitions of his wife, that she was destitute of
religious feelings, and required to make up her peace with
God, and instruct her heart in the knowledge of his wonder-
ful ways. This change on the part of her husband, filled
her mind with grief; but she did not resign him to the
power of his superstition, without at least an effort to
ascertain the object of the Semples, in thus breaking down
the strength of his mind, to make way for some project
which their selfishness had planned, and would not fail to
execute.

A few lights had been afforded by the information given
her by her son, William ; and she waited with anxiety for
the next meeting between the father and the son, when
she determined to endeavour to hear some part of their
conversation. Two days afterwards, Peter Semple called
at Burnhaugh. Sir William was confined to his room, by
an attack of gout, and Peter was, as he wished, shewn into
the study, where the accustomed conversation between him
and Stephen commenced. Lady Sommerville had stationed
herself in a recess, which was covered by a fall of drapery,
and could easily hear all that passed between the parties.

" Sir William is confined to his room, I hear," said Peter.
" I hope he is not in a dangerous condition ; for, while it is
our object that his mind may be shaken, we canna want his
body, ye ken, and, were he to dee, a' oor hopes would be
blasted thegither."

" It is only gout," answered Stephen. " But he is now
as fit for our purpose as he ever can be. Were he getting
more fanatical, he might be pronounced insane, and no
court of law would listen to him."

" Weel, weel," said Peter — " Helen Gray is in our hands,
and Gilbert Finlayson, the procurator before the commis-
sary court o' Edinburgh, is ready to proceed in the declara-
tor as sune as he gets instructions. Sae I think I'll get
Helen to sign a letter to Finlayson as sune as possible ; for
there is noo nae time to lose. When Sir William is declared,
by the competent authority, to be the husband o' Helen
Gray, whom he promised to marry, his present marriage
wi' Lady Sommerville is worth nae mair than the paper on
which the contract is written — and ye ken"

At this moment, Peter Semple was cut short in his
speech, by a noise as of some person falling. On running
out, Stephen discovered Lady Sommerville lying on the

94

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

floor in a state of insensibility. The faces of Semple and
his son shewed that they suspected they were discovered ;
but the efforts they made to recover the lady enabled them
to conceal their emotions. The servants were quickly at
the side of their mistress ; and, no person daring to assign
any cause for the extraordinary circumstance, the efforts
to bring back the lady w7ere conducted in silence — though
not without suspicions, on the part of the servants, thai
there was some unexplained connection between the lady's
faint and the conduct or conversation of the two Semples.

When Lady Sommerville recovered, she was lying in her
own apartment, with her eldest daughter by her side. Her
first thoughts reverted to the cause of her present situation,
and the jextraordinary conversation she had heard. She
was now no longer doubtful of the schemes of which she
was to become the victim. The various circumstances oj
which she was now made aware, combined to shew her
that it was the intention of Peter Semple to. prove a prior
marriage between her husband and another woman of the
name of Helen Gray. The nature of the man, cunning
and cruel, agreed perfectly with this construction ; and,
though she was not far enough into the secret to see the
advantages that would accrue to this destroyer of domestic
peace, from a result apparently so gratuitous and inhumane,
she had no doubt, from the known rapacity of the man, thai
some benefit was expected to flow from the infliction of this
cruel wound on the peace of a happy family. She knew too
well the subtlety and cleverness of Semple, to conceive that
he would embark in an enterprise, even covertly, where, in
the event of failure, he would forfeit Sir William's agency,
without having good grounds on which to proceed ; and she
had heard of the strange peculiarity of the law of Scotland,
which justified the apothegm, that, in that country, a person
might be married and not know that he was so. These
thoughts produced other reflections more gloomy. What
would be the effects of a divorce ? Would not her children
be illegitimate, and herself an unconscious sinner — a moral
solecism in a Christian land — married and not married-
prostitute, an adultress, and yet neither — a claimant on the
pity of a world who could give her no consolation but the
miserable advice of submitting to an unjust law ? These
things passed through Lady Sommerville's mind, leaving the
burning traces of agonized thoughts ; and, when she looked
to her beautiful daughter, who sat by her side unconscious of
her mother's feelings or of her impending fate, she burst into
a flood of tears, and hid her head in her daughter's bosom,
which responded to the deep sobs of the unhappy mother.

Lady Sommerville could not tell her husband what she
had heard, and what she dreaded. It was a subject so
foreign to their usual thoughts and style of conversation,
and of a nature so indelicate and repulsive to the feelings
of a virtuous wife, that she could not approach, it. She felt
that she could only wait and tremble. The appearance of
any one of the Semples alarmed and shocked her ; and her
fragile and susceptible frame acknowledged, in her anxious
and pale countenance, the effects of a disturbed mind and
excited feelings. Her nights became sleepless, and her
days had in them only the semblance of peace ; yet no one
knew the cause of her grief; and she even endeavoured to
persuade herself that she had misconstrued the conversa-
tion of the Semples — an effort resulting entirely from the
natural tendency of the human mind, to produce to itself
the image of that peace which has parted from it, perhaps,
for ever.

Some days after the incident already noticed, Stephen
Semple waited upon Lady Sommerville, and requested
to speak with her confidentially, on a subject of a deli-
cate nature. She almost swooned when the request
was mentioned ; for she expected nothing less than an
announcement of that fatal purpose which was to seal
for ever her fortunes on earth- In this she was dis-

appointed. Stephen Semple's object was different. He
premised by stating that he had much regard for William
Apsley, and, as his tutor, thought it his duty to inform his
parent of everything he thought might promote his good
and avert his injury. Acting under that sense, he had
resolved to inform Lady Sommerville of her son's affection
for an orphan girl, of mean parentage and meaner breeding,
who lived in the town of Perth, but whom the distance did
not prevent from meeting William, at appointed intervals,
at the fountain of Niobe, where they often indulged in the
sweet but dangerous pastime of the young heart — a mutual
communication of the sentiment of love. This could not
fail to destroy the fortunes of the boy, and blast the hopes o^
his mother ; and he, therefore, took it upon him to recom-
mend a step which Sir William had given his sanction to,
that the boy should be removed from Scotland, and sent to
London, or some part of England, where he would be
beyond the power of so destructive an intercourse as that
in which he was engaged.

To this statement Lady Sommerville was compelled, from
some hints she herself had heard of William's conduct, to give
attention ; but, nervous and irritable as she was, and feeling
herself in that state which a sense of another's power, though
evil and acquired by bad means, seldom fails to produce in
the weak Avhen acted upon by the strong, she fell helplessly
into the snare which had been laid for her ; and, acknow-
ledging the facts set forth by Stephen to be true, and hia
remedy efficacious and necessary, consented and promised
to get her son dispatched to London on the very next day.

The resolution of Lady Sommerville was put into execu-
tion. William Apsley was hurried away, in a post-chaise,
to London, and consigned to the care of one of his mother's
relations, residing there.

The dark intentions of tile Semples had thus far suc-
ceeded William Apsley had been sent out of the way.
His love for Lucy Gray — who was the daughter of Helen
Gray, the instrument, in the hands of Peter Semple, whereby
he intended to produce so much mischief to the family of
the Sommervilles — required to be quenched ; for that girl,
who might, eventually, be the eldest heir female to the
estate of Burnhaugh, was destined to be the wife of Stephen
Semple, who, as her husband, would become the future
proprietor of the usufruct of Burnhaugh. The consent of
Lucy was not thought necessary to this projected union ;
for schemers in dangerous projects take slight obstacles on
chance, and all the energies of the Semples were required
for getting the declarator of marriage, at Helen Gray's in-
stance against Sir William Sommerville, instituted and
brought to a successful termination.

The resolution of the Semples was precipitated rather
than retarded by the circumstance of the suspicions they
entertained of Lady Sommerville's knowing their schemes.
Their intentions were to keep in the back-ground, until the
declarator was concluded, getting Helen Gray to employ
another agent, but supplying her with the necessary instruc-
tions and advice ; but, if it had so happened that Lady
Sommerville had heard any part of their conversation, they
were determined not to allow this to interfere with their
scheme, because all the danger they had to fear was incurred ;
and, to forego the advantage for which that danger had been
braved, would have appeared, to such a utilitarian as Peter
Semple, mere folly If Lady Sommerville should tell what
she heard to her husband, the Semples were then prepared
to deny everything, and trust to effrontery for a vindication,
adhering still to the cause in which they had engaged, and
imputing all its main-springs to Helen Gray herself, the
mere instrument in the hands of the wily attorney.

Many times had Lady Sommerville determined to speak,
either to Peter Semple or to her husband, as to the cause
of a grief which lay so heavy upon her heart ; but the very
grief itself took away the power of her resolution, and a few

TALKS 01 THE BORDERS.

days' respite had fed her fancy with some rays of hope, that
Mie might still have been wrong in her construction of the
wnversation she had heard. This hope was destined to
vanish, nearly as soon as it had shed its first ray. As she
sat one forenoon at the window, contemplating the heauty
of the groves lighted up with a midday sun, she observed
three men approaching the house, of an appearance not
usual in the visiters to Burnhaugh. They came up to the
door, and handed to a servant who was standing on the
landing place, a paper, and then quickly disappeared, in
the manner of incendiaries, who, when their firebrand is
thrown, escape from the scene of conflagration. The paper
was handed first to Lady Sommerville, that she might give
it to Sir William, who was now so completely a martyr to
gout as to be generally confined to his bedroom. She
read it, and sent it to her husband. The fears of Lady
Sommerville were at last realized — the pictures she had
drawn of her future condition, were in a moment invest-
ed with the dark hues of a sorrowful reality : that paper
was a summons of declarator of marriage, between Helen
Gray, residing in Perth, and Sir William Sommerville cf
Burnhaugh. This announcement operated but as a darker
grief to the heart already prepared for it by others which,
in their first incursion, had wasted even the energies of
sorrow. Pale, care-worn, and attenuated, she sat with the
fatal document in her hand; and, in the extremity of despair
produced by the greatest and the last evil, appeared more
like a statue than a creature in whose pulses the blood oi'
life still flowed : such is the effect of mighty calamities,
drying up the fountains of sorrow, and throwing over the
heart that cataleptic poAver Avhich produces a grief too deep
for tears. After some time, she was able to ring for a ser-
vant, to hand the paper to Sir William, and again resigned
herself to her sorrow.

From this state of insensibility, she was roused by a vio-
lent ringing of Sir William's bell ; and, in a little time, she
saw a servant run Avith great speed and saddle a horse,
whereon he mounted and took the road to Perth. Some
time after, the same servant came back, bringing with him
Sir William's legal adviser, Peter Semple, Avho Avas immedi-
ately closeted Avith his confiding client. Lady Sommerville
retired to her dressing-room, Avhich adjoined to the bedroom
where Sir William and Peter Semple Avere in consultation ;
and, though she had not gone there for the purpose of hear-
ing Avhat passed — for grief had put all schemes out of her
head — she found herself Avithin the scope of the conversation
of the tAvo parties.

" Mr Semple, I have always understood, from you,"
began Sir William, in an agitated state, " that that woman,
Helen Gray, Avas quiet, and not inclined to trouble me
about this old promise, Avhich, in the mad recklessness of a
youthful passion, I made to her : whence then comes this
vrit, Avhich you laAvyers call a summons ?"

Peter Semple took the paper out of the trembling hands of
Sir William, with a cool and determined air, mixed Avith as
much of surprise as would impose upon his victim, and make
him believe that he had not previously heard of the affair.

" A summons o' declarator before the commissaries ! — Oh,
the Jezebel!" began the attorney. " Wha could hae imagined
that the Avoman Avould, at this time o' day — and Avhen I Avas,
as your much-honoured agent, filling her lap A\i' gold, to
keep her quiet — hae ventured to tak such a step as this ?
Ah, she maun hae got into the hands o' some low limb o'
the law — some grovelling Avretch, wha, like the thieves
Avha used in auld times to steal the offerings frae the altar,
infest the precincts o' Justice, and pilfer the contents o' her
equal scales, making justice injustice, and law an abomin-
ation. But we maun defend it, Sir William — we m/*un
defend it as becomes independent and upright men. I'll
write to my agent, to take the summons ' to see,' as AVC
call it; and a braw answer we can make to it, denying every-

thing and admitting naething — the true colour and cha-
racter o' a' guid defences."

" But you forget, sir," interrupted Sir William, " that my
character, as a thing visible by One greater than the com-
missaries of Edinburgh, is here at stake ; and 1 do not choose
to be again put in the position in Avhich I was placed by
your conduct in the case of Drybarns, Avhere I, on paper, Avas
made to deny everything, and on oath admitted everything.
No more of this with one Avho remembers that Avrath Avill
not tarry long to him who numbers himself among sinners.
The prophet has said, ' Devise not a lie against thy brother,
neither do the like to thy friend.' Yea, ' use not to make
any manner of lie, for the custom thereof is not good.' I
will therefore alloAV no lies to be put into any papers bear-
ing my name ; and I noAV request to be informed of the
utmost extent of this mighty evil, Avith Avhich the Lord has,
mayhap in His mercy, intended to humble my soul, exceed-
ing even the vengeance of the ungodly, Avhich is fire and
worms. Let come Avhat will, I shall not disobey the sacred
Avriter, who says, ' Bind not one sin upon another, for in
one thou shalt not be unpunished' — having once sinned,
in deceiving Helen Gray, I shall not again sin, in lying
against her and Him Avho made her and Avho made me,
and can avenge the one by punishing the other. These sen-
timents are well appreciated by all good men ; and your son
Stephen perceives well their precious Avorth to him Avho
knows there is another Avorld."

'f I dinna gainsay your sentiments, Sir William ; but, as I
like to stick to business Avhen business is in hand, I maun
answer the question Avhilk is contained in this excellent heap
o' godly sentences. You ask me A\rhat is the extent o' this
evil ; but it seems to me that ye mark out the extent your-
sel, for, if ye Avinna let me deny everything, which has aye
been my practice in the court, ye maun just admit every-
thing ; for, sae far as I knoAV, having never had any Avish to
qualify a denial, and sae having nae experience o' sic Aveak
things as evasions, I am no free to say that ye would be
in any better condition by saying that ye dinna recollect
the matter in question. Sae it Avill be referred to your
oath, and ye ken best Avhat to swear. It's nae doot an
awfu' thing to SAvear awa Lady Sommerville and the bonny
bairns ; but it is a mair aAvfu' thing, as Steenie Avould say, to
swear aAva the prospect o' an eternal life."

At this moment, Lady Sommerville burst into the room.

" Can it be borne," she ejaculated, in a broken voice,
and with the Avild air of despair — " can it be borne that
the laAV of our land, and, what is far above it, the Avord of
the Almighty, should, by the artifices of sinful men, be
used as engines of oppression, by the servant against the
master ? Sir William Sommerville, this man and his son
have laid a snare intended to bind thy feet Avith fetters, and
thy soul with the bands of superstition. It is they Avho
have urged on this unhappy woman, to come, like an un-
clean spirit, into the sanctuary of domestic happiness, and
make that which nearest approaches to Heaven, of all the
institutions upon earth, the semblance of the regions of
the expiators of sin. These ears can testify the truth of
what I say — Peter Semple is the true spring, the aider, the
abettor, the perfecter, the reaper of the fruits of this diabo-
lical conspiracy. Deny, sir, if you can, the statement of
your intended victim — that you and your son have wrought
in two directions, to attain the same object. You have got
into your power the infatuated female whom you are now
using as the engine of your cruelty, and your son has
Avrought on the mind of my husband, till you think that,
by the aid of a blessed religion, he may be brought to swear
away the most holy of rights. Listen to them not, my dear
husband — remember your affectionate Avife, Avho trusted to
your honour, and do not forget your innocent children,
whose affections those laAvs have sanctified, Avhich are now
attempted to be turned to tear them asunder."

96

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

With these words, Lady Sommerville clung to the knees
of her husband, who looked suspiciously at Semple, as if re-
quiring an explanation. At that moment, Stephen enterec
the room. He pretended to feel astonishment at the posi-
tion of the parties, and required an explanation. Peter,
without displaying any emotion, complained to Stephen thai
Lady Sommerville had charged them with being in concert
with Helen Gray, in an action of declarator of marriage
which she had raised against Sir William. On hearing
this charge, Stephen pretended to feel highly indignant, and
poured forth a volley of scriptural phrases, with a view to
catch the ear of Sir William, which had latterly become so
attuned to the language of the Bible, that nonsense itself
was consecrated by a sentence from Job. In this, Stephen
succeeded so well that Sir William, turning to his lady, re-
marked that she must surely be in error ; that it was
impossible that so pious a person as Stephen Semple could,
without a motive, for none he saw, be guilty of ingratitude
and deceit towards his benefactor. Lady Sommerville was
about to reply ; but her strength failed her, and servants
were called to carry her to her apartment.

Thus the victory was so far declared for the schemers,
who proceeded to sympathise with Sir William in his
misfortune. Stephen was more than ordinarily eloquent on
the important qualities of truth, and represented a false
oath as the greatest insult that could be offered to the
majesty of God, in so far as it was an effort to produce a
fellowship on the part of the most High, in an attempt to
change the eternal nature of truth by Him established. Sir
William listened with attention. The bird, underthe influence
of the charm which wiles it into the mouth of its destroyer,
is not more loyal to the obligation of its fatal instinct, than
was this unhappy man to the wishes of his evil comforters.
Convinced that he would swear as they wished and antici-
pated, the father and son left the room; and Sir William
resigned himself to the infliction which he conceived God,
for wise purposes, had visited him for his early sins.

It was soon rumoured abroad that Sir William Sommerville
was in the unhappy situation of a man doomed to commit a
suicidal act against the existence of his dearest interests.
His friends interfered, and Lady Sommerville used all the
interest of the country to get him brought to a better sense
of what was due to himself and his family. But all was in
vain. The declarator went on ; and the time arrived for Sir
William giving his oath, on the reference of Helen Gray,
that, at the time and place mentioned in the writings, Sir
William Sommerville had promised to make her his wife, and
that afterwards she bore him a child. An effort was now
made to get him to go abroad ; but his answer was, that he
could not fly from the presence of Him in whose hands the
world is as a ball which is the sport of children ; that
' the Lord has created medicines out of the earth," whereof
those of one part of it are as good as those of another, and
" he that is wise will not abhor them." The Genius of
Superstition had claimed him as her own, and the misery
he was bringing upon himself and his children, was con-
sidered by him to be that medicine which Ecclesiastes has
mentioned — a medicine for the sins of his youth. At the
appointed time, Sir William Sommerville sealed the fate of
himself and his children, by emitting an oath which, by the
peculiar laws of Scotland, fixed on him a marriage prior to
that with Lady Sommerville, and consigned her and her
family to the pity of mankind.

A sentence was pronounced by the commissaries of Edin-
burgh, declaring Sir William and Helen Gray to have
been and to be married persons. This was acknowledged,
even at that early period, to have been an extraordinary
practical example of the effects which so strange a law was
calculated to produce ; and serious intentions were enter-
tained by the authorities of the crown, to introduce a change
that would retain some part of the spirit of the old rule, !

and save the fortunes of confiding women, who trusted to
the honour of men, and were entitled to the benefits of a
protecting law, to the same extent as the seduced vindica-
tor of her rights, under this existing system, was entitled to
claim that protection. Scotland is still without this salutary
change.

Sir William Sommerville saw, with the eye of a stricken
sinner, who looks upon the vengeance of heaven as a medi-
cine for the griefs of unrepented sin, all the disasters which
he had brought upon his house. A deep melancholy was
the consequence, which, extending its influence over a sys-
tem long depressed by the effects of religious terrors, pro-
duced a liver complaint, with complicated stomachic ailments,
which soon put a period to his existence.

On the death of Sir William, Lady Sommerville sent for
her son, who came on the wings of love ; for his Lucy was
still the object of his admiration ; and all the efforts of his
London companions, by introducing him to young rich
heiresses, only deepened his sighs for a ramble with the
gentle maiden of his first affections, among the bonny groves
of Burnhaugh. On his arrival at the house, he was filled
with disappointment. Peter Semple had turned Lady
Sommerville to the door, and taken possession of the pro-
perty, as guardian of the heir of Sir William ; and she was
obliged to take up her residence in a house about two miles
from Burnhaugh, on the road to Crieff.

So far had succeeded the diabolical schemes of the
Semples. The final step remained to be accomplished —
one which had given them no uneasiness. Lucy Gray was,
before she was made aware of the change that had taken
place upon her fortunes, asked to marry Stephen Semple.
No other answer was expected by Peter, who had acted as
her guardian through life, than a grateful acquiescence and
the disappointment of the schemers may be cenceived,
when Lucy declared that she would never be the wife of
Stephen Semple. This alarming indication, threatening to
blast the hopes of so many years, and to render an act of
interested roguery, gratuitous villany, only doubled the
efforts of the Semples. Lucy was confined in a part of
Peter Semple's house, from a fear that she would elope, and
get into the hands of some one who could tell her her rights.

These circumstances came to the ear of William Apsley,
who, repairing to Perth, discovered where Lucy was con-
fined. He waited till midnight ; and, providing himself
with scaling apparatus, approached the small window of
the room where the disconsolate girl lay bewailing her
situation. A tap at the window was responded to by the
interesting prisoner. Recognition passed in a moment, and
a plan was laid whereby Lucy might be removed on the
succeeding night. The scheme succeeded ; and, at two
o'clock in the following morning, Lucy Gray and William
Apsley were on their way to the house of his mother.

In a short time, Lucy was served heir to her father,
married William Apsley, and resided in the house of Burn-
haugh, whither Lady Sommerville and her family also
repaired, and where they all lived as happily as the misfor-
tunes which had befallen them would permit. The dis-
comfited and disappointed Semples, caught in their own
snare, became subjects of merriment and scorn to all who
knew them. Heirs were produced to the groves of Burn-
haugh ; and the fountain of the weeping mother was often
the scene of a meeting of the family, in commemoration of
the circumstances, already detailed, connected with thaf
delightful spot.

WILSON'S

, anty

ALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SKETCHES FROM A SURGEON'S NOTE-BuOK.
CHAP. III.— THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

HOWEVER deeply hidden from our limited views (as stated
in my first chapter) may be the proximate principles of the
Connection between the body and the mind of man, we
nave presented to us every day the most undoubted proofs
— and melancholy, in many instances, they are — of that
connection being of so intimate a nature, and depending upon
such fine and subtle media, that the ordinary affections of the
two are reciprocated with the greatest regularity and pre-
cision, while their derangements, diseases, and extraordinary
excitements, produce mutual effects which are not only
disastrous and terrible, but so varied and unexpected tha't
they mock all our anticipations of the results of their
exciting causes. For all those changes which affect the
enlireness of the mind, we are naturally led to look to
deseases and injuries affecting the brain itself; while, for
those again which mark a decrease of its energies, we may
resort to the ample field of bodily ailments, the most of
which — and there are thousands th;> "flesh is heir to" —
extend their " tear and wear" to tli scat of thought and
feeling ; and, though they cannot b ~';ik, weaken and wear
out the noble powers whose arrogated superiority is some-
times doomed to this humiliation.

Yet there are occasional diseases of the body (not to our
senses organically affecting the brain) which produce changes
on the faculties of the mind different from the general
mental weakness incident to most states of protracted
bodily suffering. Certain affections of the lungs, for instance,
while they reduce the body to the state of a living skeleton,
supply such an addition to the oil of " the lamp of hope,"
that the deluded victim sees its bright coruscations through
the eye that is in the act of being fixed and glazed by
death. In some scorbutic affections, again, the mind
increases in strength in proportion as the body advances to
a state of putrescency ; as if the soul, rejoicing in its victory
over the flesh that had struggled with it and mastered
it, mocked the vain dreams of the infidel materialist, by
making its last act its brightest, while that of the body is its
weakest. In that great viscus or laboratory of bile, the liver,
there, however, often occurs a disease, named by the ancients,
from the seat of its primary action, hypochondriasis, which
exercises an influence over the mind beyond all the powers
of the most painful and fatal diseases that do not affect the
brain itself. This action, like that of the diseased lungs, is
almost always of one particular kind ; and it is curious to
contemplate the difference between the effects of the two
diseased viscera — the one, namely, the diseased lungs, pro-
ducing hope and confidence ; and the other, the diseased
liver, filling the mind with fear and apprehension. It is
no part of my purpose to speculate on these extraordinary
facts ; otherwise I might enter on the fine question which
has been so strangely overlooked by metaphysicians — namely,
What is the principle of the connection between those feel-,
ings of hope and fear produced by physical excitement, and
the ideas of the particular objects of the feelings which
always accompany them ? The trembling hypochondriacs
has for ever 'in his nervous eye his peculiar object of terror,
117. VOL. III.

either ^real or imaginary ; and just in proportion as his
terror is without foundation, does he adhere to the imagin-
ary cause of it with greater asperity and determination,
resisting, with the greatest pertinacity, every effort to make
him believe the fact that he dreams of imagined ills, and
that even the bright star of worldly prosperity is in the
ascendant, and shining so bright that no one who is not
blind or unwilling to see can escape its light.

The objects of the hypochondriac's fears are as numerous
and extraordinary as the whims and caprices of the most
pregnant fancy — comprehending the case of the Dutchman,
who, thinking himself a pea of grain, was under continual fear
of being picked up by birds ; that of the residenter at Elgin,
who, conceiving himself to be a sack of chaff, was in hourly
terror of being sat upon and smothered by his visiters ;
that of an individual of Edinburgh, who was under the
greatest alarm at the sight of a cloud, lest it should fall
upon him and kill him ; and that of the familiar " man ol
glass" — all of which are apt to excite in us a smile, in little
accordance with the misery of the unhappy victims'; — yet the
most ordinary form of the hypochondriac's apprehension is a
sick, melancholy despondency and despair, resulting from,
or producing an imaginary embarrassment of his pecuniary
affairs — he sees, in the womb of futurity, all the dreadful
forms which poverty, clothed with rags and gnawed
with hunger, assumes in the lives of unfortunate men ; and
is impressed with the conviction, which all his own or his
friends' efforts cannot subdue, that such a fate — privation,
contempt, disgrace, the scorn of the world, and death by
starvation under a hedge or in a ditch by the way-side —
awaits him inevitably at no distant day.

Of all the cases that have come under my personal observ-
ation— and there have been many, more or less marked with

striking peculiarities — that of Mr H , the West India

merchant, is the most remarkable. The malady we are now
considering seldom takes a turn so obstinate and calamitous
as in this case ; yet such is the great tendency of people in a
mercantile country like ours (where competition and the
strife of personal interests assume often the strength of strong
passions, and where afailure is looked upon, not undeservedly,
as a gigantic evil) to sink into fits of moping melancholy,
and assume false and distorted views of their condition, that
few will fail to find, in the details of this remarkable case,
some features, though on a large scale, of their own situa-
tions, at times when they are under the domination of the
dark genius of despondency — the attendant of all those who
are fated to struggle through a hard world.

When I was first called to Mr H , I was ushered

into a house of great size and splendour, suited to the style
of life of a successful West India merchant. In an outer

room, I saw Mrs H , a lady somewhat advanced in life,

who happily combined the manners of a gentlewoman with
the kindness and frankness which pride too often displaces
from the hearts and faces of the rich, to make room for the
haughtiness which is deemed the badge of the great. By
her side, sat a young woman about twenty years of age,
(whom, in the course of conversation, she called Angelina,)
her daughter, possessed of what, to the eye of the greater
part of mankind, would have appeared extraordinary beauty,
but what, to my professional observation, was only the

98

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

extreme delicacy, the pure hyacinthine tint, the clear trans-
parent skin, and the fair auburn hair of the victim of a
strumous habit, which she had received by hereditary right
from her mother, who presented the same brilliant but
fallacious appearances of the characteristics of a beautiful
blond. The vivacity and sensibility so often found in
voung women of her peculiar constitution, were also
apparent ; suggesting to my mind, as they must do to
every person who has any claims to feeling, the regret
that qualities so exquisite should so often be found
associated with, if not resulting from an unnatural state of

the system of the body. Mr H was, they informed

me, ailing in a very slight degree ; but my inquiries were
incapable of extracting the precise nature of his complaint ;
the old lady insisting upon its being nothing but an attack
of spleen, and the young one, in her peculiar, sprightly way,
urging, with a smiling countenance, that her father's disease
was pure ill-nature — a complaint which she feared no doctor
could cure. I tried to undeceive her, and told her that we
possessed some secrets, one of which was the power of
making mankind laugh, as well as dance ; but I was soon
told, by the old lady, that her daughter Angelina was not
behind me in that respect ; for that she not only possessed
that power, but exercised it every hour of the day — a com-
pliment, she thought, to the victim of high-toned nerves,
but, in my opinion, the description of a misfortune.

I found Mr H sitting in his bedroom, which, was

purposely darkened, by half-closed shutters, to a dismal
gloom. He was in his morning gown, with his head
enveloped in large rolls of flannel, and his feet (encased in
a pair of yellow Morocco slippers) placed on a footstool
before a large fire, into which he seemed to be looking
with that intent gaze which the winter comforter often
charms from victims of ennui. As he turned his face upon
me when I entered, I got read to me at once the enigmatical
accounts of his wife and daughter, in the yellow bilious
tinge which covered all the white part of his eyes, and
imparted to the pupil that heavy, lethargic, and sleepy look
which accompanies, as a sure companion, all cases of morbid
melancholy, arising from a diseased state of the liver ; but,
in many instances, alternates with sudden expressions of
apprehension and fear, as if the patient dreaded the approach,
of personal danger. His jaws were elongated by the pres-
sure of despondency, whose influence could be also traced
in the flaccid muscles, hanging eyebrows, drooping head,
and all the other well-known symptoms of a depressed and
clouded mind, into which the radiant bow of hope has been
unable to send any of its many-coloured rays. I observed,
at first, no indications of the morbid, hare-eyed look of
terror and apprehension which, in patients of this class, I
always search for with great solicitude, as being a sign of
something much more serious than what the vulgar under-
stand by hypochondria; and indicating that advancement
of the progress of the real malady, when it lays its dreadful
grasp on some of the faculties of the mind. But I was
assured, from the other advanced symptoms exhibited to
me, that there was great danger of the disease of the patient
reaching, if it had not already reached, that unhappy climax;
and my attention behoved to be directed to further indi-
cations of a more decided character, generally elicited by a
conversation, wherein the patient falls naturally into the
train of thought suggested by the state of his feelings, and
best calculated for rousing them, forcing out the expression
of his sentiments, whether morbid or natural, and shewing
the true state of his disease.

I was surprised at hearing him state, somewhat sullenly,
that he had not sent for me ; but I mentally recurred to the
conversation I had with his wife and daughter, and sur-
mounted this difficulty, at the expense of my pride, by stat-
ing, jocularly, that the solicitude of an affectionate consort
was through the love and gratitude of a good husband, a

sufficient authority for the attendance of a doctor — a remark
which was responded to by a splenetic growl, accompanied
by the hasty choleric statement (disproved by his gown
and flannels) that there was nothing the matter with him.
But his natural politeness, overcome for a moment by his
disease, vindicated its authority, and produced an expres-
sion of regret that he had alloAved his changed temper, as
he called it, to hurry him into rudeness ; a fault which he
was never guilty of until latterly, that some cloud having
come over his mind, had obscured his perceptions of
etiquette, as well as destroyed the contented and happy
tone of mind he used to enjoy in the midst of his pro-
sperity. I was easily appeased, and soon got him engaged
in conversation, avoiding all direct allusion to his ailment—
which, in so far as regarded its true character, was clearly
a secret to himself — and following him into those trains of
thought which seemed to produce the strongest interest in
him, though of little importance to myself.

Breaking off with the greatest abruptness, from a subject
started by himself, he pronounced, in a dolorous tone of
voice, accompanied with a deep-drawn sigh that heaved all
his chest, the name of an old school companion of his;
throwing upon me, as he ejaculated, " Poor George ! poor
George !" one of those timid looks which, during my long
practice, I have never mistaken for a true symptom of the
real hypochondria. His words betrayed mere sympathy for

the fate of George B ; but his eyes spoke a language

different from that of sorrow ; darting forth, as they now
seemed to eschew a supposed incorporated presence, looks
of terror, mixed with supplicatory glances of pity, while
occasional shivers ran over his body, like the effects of
sudden dashes of cold water on the bare skin. This moral
ague remained for some time, his eye still alternating be-
tween the expressions of terror and pity — now fixed on me,
now on empty space, and now averted from an ideal object ;
and ejaculations, " God preserve me from such a fate !"
bursting from him in deep groans. I saw in all this, the
revealed workings of the dreadful disease I have met in so
many forms ; and waited patiently until the exacerbation of
terror had passed, that I might probe the cause of the
apprehension of his imaginary evil, with a view to an
endeavour to divest it of its supposed danger. He calmed,

and ". inquired who this man George B was, whose

fate called from him such intense expressions of pity.

" Who is he !" exclaimed he, in a voice cracked and
unnatural, while the same expression of pity and terror

occupied his face — " who does not know George B •

the West India merchant, who has fallen, with the quick-
ness of a tumbling balloon voyager, from the heights of
grandeur, riches, and fame, to beggary, rags, and hunger?
Heavens ! what a sight met these eyes on Sunday week, as
I took my last airing by Nicholas' Park ! — I have not yet
recovered from it. George B , the proud, the aristo-
cratic, haughty George B , sitting by the roadside

supplicating alms ! — ay, he condescended to beg from one
to whom he once lent two thousand pounds !"

He paused, with his eye fixed on the imaginary object of
his vision, while a tear, a tribute to the pity which for a
moment had expelled from his mind the terror, bedewed
the orb, now strained to the utmost, as if he struggled for a
better sight of the victim of misfortune.

" We began the world together," he continued, in a more
subdued tone ; " but he distanced me in the race of pro-
sperity. By one shipment of tobacco — in that old ship the
Emerald, which, after he sold her, sunk near the Malaccas —
he cleared seven thousand pounds ; and, by two voyages of
the Dolphin, he made as much more. Fortune rained
gold on him, till he would scarcely stoop to pick it up,
Disdaining the vulgar gift of dowries, he married a beauty.
On great occasions, he put two more horses to his carriage
than were used by the ordinary slow-paced children of

TALES OF THE BORDEltS.

fortune, to drag him in state, or imitate the quickness of
^iis own prosperity. Yet, no one called this dizzy extrava-
gance ; for every one thought he could stand higher flights ;
but, sir," ( pausing, exhibiting indications of great distress,
and throwing on me timid looks,) " he did not insure the
Amphitrite, though she was scarcely sea-worthy and he
had thirty thousand pounds between her rotten timbers.
Well does the wise man say, ' The rich man's wealth is his
strong city.' The confidence of wealth made him despise
the "winds and the waves ; but they, in their turn, despised
the Amphitrite, and dashed her to pieces on the rocks of
Staten Island. Yet was not his confidence abated : though
he had read what has been written, that ' He that is surety
for a stranger shall smart for it,' he became surety for me
who paid my bond, and for others who did not pay their
bond. The smiles of fortune were changed to frowns. I
tremble when I think how fearfully we merchants are sub-
jected to the mutable tyranny of that subtle and cruel
goddess. The gold that rained on him disappeared, his
creditors hated him, his debtors despised him, his friends
deserted him, and she, his beautiful wife who had come
without a dowry, went without a jointure — ay, and
without regret. Oh ! why was I not spared the sight of that

apparition — George B , with no shoes on his feet ; a

ragged napkin bound round his temples ; a coat through
which the cold winter winds blew ; hungry, cold, wretched,
miserable — begging from me— from me — a penny to assuage
the pangs of starvation !"

He shuddered as he pronounced the last of these words ;
pressing his arms to his sides, clasping firmly his hands,
and grinding his teeth, in an apparent effort to resist or
bear an exacerbation of terror that shook him to the centre
and wrung from him, in spite of himself, the prayer — " 0
God, avert from me this fate !" But he got no confidence
from heaven ; for all this suffering was succeeded by the
same expression of terror I had already detected. Looking
at me askance, he voluntarily, yet timidly construed and
explained these extraordinary symptoms, by a single
remark.

" Is it not possible," said he — " I mean is it not," (pausing
and looking fearfully,) " is it not likely — probable — that I
may yet beg ?"

It will not be easy for me to forget the look that accom-
panied these words, though I have seen the terror-stricken
orb of the hypochondriac in its most nervous paroxysm.
The mystery was now explained ; and, having detected the
patient's disease, I framed my answer in such a form as
might have some chance (though I knew its extent was
Bmall) of allaying his fear.

tf So far as I can judge," replied I, " scarcely anything
can be pronounced more improbable than that you should
be brought to that condition. You forget entirely that you

have yourself accounted for George B 's misfortunes.

He made money too easily; and, having too much of it, he
despised it. You know what the proverb says — ' Hast
thou found honey : eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest
thou be filled therewith, and vomit it.' Your friend vomit-
ed his wealth. Why engaged he in suretyship — an impru-
dence railed against from the days of Solomon, whose
saying, applicable to it, you have yourself quoted ? ' The
Lord is the maker of the rich and the poor;' but the rich
man unmakes himself. Even when your friend saw danger
approaching, he did not 'hide himself;' but, like the simple-
ton, ' passed on and was punished.' If a man bring him-
self to ruin by imprudence, another may surely avoid that
ruin, by that virtue which comprehends all others —
prudence — divine prudence.

As I spoke, he eyed me incredulously. My reference to
holy writ seemed to touch a chord that startled him and
increased his distress. With that triumphant cunning
which his unfortunate class use in the supposed detection

of schemes to allay their fear, he cried out in gre it
agitation —

" Ha ! you avoid the great, the important sentence — and
I know why you avoid it ; but you cannot deceive me by
trying to make me believe it is not in the holy book ; for
I dream of it — it haunts me day and night — and why should
I not believe the words of inspiration ? Hear them — ' Boast
not thyself of to-morrow : thou knowest not what a day may
bring forth ; for riches take wings and fly away as an
eagle towards heaven.' These, sir, are the fearful words ;
and we have, besides, the experience of the world to teach
us that rich men become beggars — dreadful fate ! — beggars,
sir, in spite of all the prudence and wisdom of Solomon !"

" Yes," replied I ; " but the confidence of a prudent
man in the stability of his fortune is not to be shaken by
the experience of the fate of the imprudent man who has
thrown his riches to the winds. If you had not insured
the Mermaid, which, from hearing of her launch some time
ago, I understand is one of your valuable vessels, you
might have dveaded the fate that resulted from not insuring
the Amphitrite."

" And I have not insured the Mermaid!" screamed he,
with a voice that pierced the tympanum of my ears like a
sharp instrument — " / have not insured the Mermaid," he
repeated, with a kind of yell, as he fell back on his chair,
with his face covered by his ague-struck hands.

I was unprepared for this sudden burst ; for I had
hazarded the remark, trusting to this generally-esteemed
prudent and somewhat close-handed man having followed
the practice of cautious merchants, in insuring a new and
untried vessel. The agitation into which I had involun-
tarily thrown him prevented me from looking calmly at the
true and limited import of my simple remark, which, with-
out a superaddition of some secret cause of apprehension,
never could have produced such a terrible effect, even on a
hypochondriac. As he still lay struggling with his appulse
of apprehension, I hastened to remove the cause of alarm,
in the only way which seemed clear and certain.

"You may still insure the Mermaid," said I, "wherever
she is. No office will refuse to undertake the risk of a
sea-worthy ship that has not exceeded her time."

Taking his trembling hands from off his face, he fixed his
eyes on me with that wild look which shews that terror is,
for a moment, under the self-excruciating domination of
despair.

" When the helm is sunk in the quicksands of New-
foundland," he cried, in a heart-piercing tone, " and the
mizzen is whirling in the eddies of the Gulf Stream, what
less would the premium be than cent, per cent. ?"

He wrung his hands as he ejaculated these words, and
fixed his eye intensely on some ideal object, as if he had
seen the doomed vessel that held a great part of his trea-
sures torn to pieces by the ravages of the storm — the
rudder in the act of being embedded in the quicksands —
and the masts drifting along, the sport of the winds and
waves. He remained in that position for some time, draw -
ing deep sighs, and apparently unconscious of my presence.
I was much perplexed. I had got no intelligence of the loss
of the Mermaid — an event which, from her great size, would
have produced some noise ; and the conduct of his wife and
daughter was entirely inconsistent with the knowledge of a
loss that might bring them to beggary. At the same time, ^1
was not so well assured of the absolute extent of the patient's
disease, as to be able to conclude, upon the instant, that he
merely imagined the loss of the vessel. He might have
got secret intelligence of the disaster ; and, strong as the
paroxysm was that had shaken him in the manner I had
witnessed, its intensity would have been no overacting of
the true, natural, healthy agony of truth— such truth-
operating on a sound mind. In this uncertainty, I was at a
loss what to do or what to say. The unhappy mail stiil

100

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

sat under the influence of the dreadful charm with which
truth or disease had invested the creation of his fancy, on
which his mind and gaze were intently fixed. To have
questioned him, or argued with him farther, would, on
either of my suppositions, have been improper, and to
have called in Mrs H would have produced alarm,

either for the soundness of her husband's mind or the safety
of the vessel. My only course seemed to be, to change, in
the meantime, the conversation — if indeed it was possible
to engage his mind on any other topic — and wait until I
got information that would enable me to act with greater
decision.

" There is a sudden fall in the exchange between this
country and Russia," said I, endeavouring to catch his eye.

" Ha ! it will not do, sir," he replied, looking at me
suspiciously and fearfully — "you are not able, by this
sleight, to conceal from me that dreadful truth. That may
be one of your modes of cure ; but can you put together
the floating pieces of the wreck of the Mermaid ? Unless
you can do that, you cannot mend my broken mind. This
attempted imposition, though well intended, increases my
agony, already insufferable : why don't you do as George

B 's friends persisted in doing, after the Amphitrite's

loss was blazed at Lloyd's — why don't you boldly say at
once, that the ship is not lost ? That is the common
worldly way of excruciation. But you cannot, you cannot —
the thing is too clear for that, your courage not sufficient,
and my penetration too keen. Would to Heaven I hadj at
this moment, the luxury ct one faint desperate doubt !"

" I have not heard any intelligence of such a loss," said
I, forced to continue the subject.

" I know it, I know it, sir," replied he — " that is a
gentler way of performing the operation of bandaging the
eyes, that one may not see the death that is carried on the
point of the amputating knife. But it cannot thus be
concealed ; for it is felt through every nerve and muscle,
and, mounting to the brain which it maddens, is indepen-
dent of the eyes," (pausing and lowering his voice to a
whisper.) " When a truth is beyond cavil and suspicion,
believe me it is best to let it alone — there is a certain stage
of a disease when the certainty of death itself is no longer
concealed from the patient. The man that would attempt
to make me believe that the Mermaid is not lost, I would
consider my enemy as well as an impostor. Sympathy is
best exerted in endeavouring to enable us to support evils
that can neither be concealed nor averted. I say endea-
vouring, for my evil is insupportable. I cannot face beg-
gary : yet whither can I fly for relief? Mercy ! Heaven ! —
mercy ! on the beggared bankrupt, who cannot live by the
way-side, and yet cannot die there ! Horrible destiny !"

His feelings were now, by the workings of his mind,
which I had unfortunately stimulated, raised to the highest
pitch of mortal suffering. He continued repeating the
\vords " horrible destiny," as the fearful images of want and
beggary he conjured up stood revealed before him, like
impersonations. His eye still sought the ideal creations,
as if ^they had been realities existing beside him, and
operating on him by the power of a charm ; yet at intervals
he seemed to recoil from them with horror, and fixed on
me a look expressive of the supplication of pity. In my
ignorance of the real state of his affairs, I was doing the
man injury. I could not with safety risk another remark ;
for everything I had yet said had aggravated the terrors
to which he was clearly enslaved. Starting up as if I
suddenly recollected an engagement, I hurriedly took my
departure, obliged to leave him still in the grasp of the
holotonic that convulsed his whole frame.

On reaching the anteroom, into which I had been first

introduced, I found Mrs H and Angelina, along with

a genteel young man named Augustus A , who seemed

to be on terms of great intimacy with the family, and whose

eloquent ocular conversation with the young lady, led m«
to suspect that the intimacy would one day be changed into
a relationship. As I entered, the sprightly, volatile girl
came running forward, and, taking me by the hand, asked
me if her father, by my means, had yet recovered his usual
good nature. She wished, above all things, he should get
some of that secret medicine I had mentioned, (and of the
nature of which Augustus had informed her,) that would
make him dance — a remark she accompanied with a side
look of great significance to her lover, who rejoined smartly,
that there might soon be occasion for the old gentleman
using his limbs in that graceful exercise. The buoyancy
of the sprightly young lady was checked by a blush which
added a supplement to my information. I accompanied
the mother to another apartment, where I learned from her
that the object she had particularly in view, in requesting
my professional assistance for her husband, was his restora-
tion to a better temper, the change of which she thought
depended on a state of the stomach, capable in all likeli-
hood of being removed or ameliorated ; but, that restora-
tion, she continued, behoved to be quick, for a marriage
had for some time been fixed between her daughter and
the young man I had seen, and she had some fears
that, in his present gloomy state of mind, he would be
unwilling to sign the contract, whereby, as he had
already agreed, ten thousand pounds was to be given as
a dowry. I heard the old lady out, and then endeavoured
to ascertain, by oblique questions and watching of her
countenance, whether she was aware of the extraordinary
state of mind and feelings into which her husband had
fallen, and, above all, whether she had heard any unfavour-
able accounts of the Mermaid, or of his finances generally.
Her answers and manner indicated no knowledge of any
misfortune, nor indeed of any fear of misfortune, enter-
tained by her husband. All she knew was, that he ha<'
got into a gloomy and ill-natured condition of mind,
which she said was entirely unjustified by any change in
his worldly condition. By the Mermaid, she added, a
powerful vessel, which he had (from his usual narrow
spirit) trusted to the sea without insurance, he was almost
certain to realize a very large addition to his fortune. I was
surprised at these statements ; but considered it prudent,
in the meantime, to make no disclosure which might tend
to alarm the family, who, in consequence of the approach
of the daughter's marriage, were clearly all in a state of
confidence and happiness, qualified very slightly by a sup-
posed fit of the spleen in the father, which would leave him
before the important day of the union.

In the course of the afternoon, I satisfied myself, by
inquiries among merchants, and without raising any sus-
picions, that no unfavourable accounts had been received
of the Mermaid, which had touched at Madeira, where she
had been heard of on her passage out to Jamaica. Mr

H 's credit was everywhere reckoned unexceptionable,

though his close-handedness and firmness in bargain-mak-
ing were not so generally admired. I was now satisfied that
my patient was a true victim of the real malady of hypo-
chondriacism ; and that, by brooding over the misfortunes of

George B and the danger he ran from not insuring

his valuable vessel, he had contracted pseudoblepsis imagin-
aria, or an imaginary vision of objects, which often attends
the original disease, as one of its very worst characteristics.
I called again upon him next day about the same hour,
and found him in the same position he occupied the day
before, sitting in the dark room, and looking into the heart
of the fire, as if the object of his morbid vision were to be
found there. He did not hear the opening of the door ; but
the sound of my voice produced a start, and a sudden, timid,
oblique cast of the eye, which satisfied me he was still
under the same melancholy delusion.

"Have you seen George B to-day?" he said, hurriedly,

ALES OF THE BORDERS.

101

and, as if afraid to hear the answer he requested. "Poor man!
poor man ! — I saw him from that window an hour ago. How
little does he know that I am so near his awful condition !"

It was impossible he could have seen the dreaded victim
of the fate he himself anticipated, from that window : it
was a mere mirage of monomania.

" I have not seen him," answered I ; ft but I have ascer-
tained that your vessel the Mermaid was noted at Madeira,
and no one has heard unfavourable accounts of her ; so she
must be presumed to be safe. You have allowed a fancy
to master your perception of truth."

u The old medicine again !" he exclaimed, with a sarcastic
grin and tone, evidently excruciating to himself. " So did I
act the leech to my poor friend, when, with Lloyd's List in
my hand, I told him that the Amphitrite was not lost. So
do we all endeavour to cheat the unfortunate."

" "Well," replied I, " shew me Lloyd's List for the loss
of the Mermaid, and I will renounce my scepticism."

" We are not generally anxious," replied he, " to convince
people of the truth and reality of a misfortune that
must bring us to beggary. It is enough that / read that
dreadful paragraph myself. I could not stand a reperusal
of it. I threw the fatal paper from me ; but the words, the
words to a letter, are marked as by a burning iron on my
brain. I trace them everywhere : on that wall, in that fire,
in the air, I see them ; and, O God ! they need no Daniel to
construe the doom of my ruin — my condemnation to that

state in which I may, with poor George B , weep over

a divided crust, begged from the reluctant hand of charity !"

" Would you have any objections to let me peruse the
paragraph?" said I.

" What need, what need," he cried, emphatically, " of a
paltry array of the impressions of types, where the brain is
burned by the flaming characters ? I know nothing of the
dreadful memorial. I threw it from me in despair. Cease
this silly scepticism, resorted to to shew an affected hypercri-
tical examination of evidence. See you that book ?" — (laying
his hand on a Bible that lay on the table, and speaking slow
and solemnly) — " do you doubt holy writ ?" %

As he pronounced these words emphatically, he threw
on me a look of the triumph of despair over the effort to
pierce the darkness of his mind by the last struggling beam
of hope. Having appealed to the Bible as an analogous
example of the certainty of the probation of the loss of the
Mermaid, he could go no further, and fell back on his chair,
with his face again covered by his palsied hands ; but I
retained my hopes of still shaking him, by forcing him to
descend to the particulars of the disaster.

" When and where was the Mermaid lost ?" said I.

This question, which begged particulars, and assumed the
loss, curdled his blood — he shuddered all over ; but, though
his courage was at fault, his fancy was prepared : —

" On the banks of Newfoundland," he replied, " on the
Stormy night of the 15th of November; she was driven so
far north by stress of weather. Thus has perished the
greater part of my fortune. Other small disasters complete
my ruin" — starting up suddenly and looking wildly around
" But, sir, you must mention this to no one, not even to my
wife — an execution in my house to-morrow would be the
result of the discovery. She cannot stand it ; and I musl
not kill her yet ; though death will, I hope, ultimately re-
lieve her from the necessity of begging with me by the
way-side. Promise, promise, on this holy book, that you
will not divulge my secret !"

I hesitated thus to confirm his disease.
" Do you refuse me this simple request?" he continued,
falling on his knees and seizing my legs, while his wild
despair-stricken eye sought with piteous look my face
" Is it thus you repay my confidence ? The confessions o:
a patient are sacred : shall mine be made an exception ?
Then may the Lord have mercy on me and mine ! — for we

are all undone — my tender, doating wife — ray Angelina on
the eve of marriage — all hurled in one instant from the
height of affluence to ruin."

"I will divulge nothing," said I, raising his weak and
emaciated body as I would have done that of a child ; " but
if the disaster is in Lloyd's, my secrecy can be of small im-
portance."

" True, true," he replied, as he again sank on his chair —
"I forgot. Nothing can now save me. It must be all
over the town. What do the people say of it ? Do they

pity me as I pity George B ? Ha !— then— then am

I indeed to be pitied, for being pitied ! How often, cruel
powers ! have I prayed thee to avert from me that wretched
boon, as the last, the greatest of all worldly evils !"

My influence over the convulsive throes that followed
these words was nothing. The only relief lay in the
exhaustion of nature's diseased strength. With an ordi-
nary victim of real evil many expedients may be fallen upon
to introduce glimpses of consolation through crevices of the
mind ; but it is a peculiar feature of hypochondria that
the imagined object of terror engrosses in its power all the
mental forces — judgment, imagination, and feeling— leaving
no faculty through which a medicinal virtue can be com-
municated to the diseased and burning brain. Aware, as my
professional knowledge made me, of the invincible nature
of the false belief engendered by this disease, I resolved
upon not persisting in an attempt, by mere argument, to
force it to give place to a truer conviction. Through the
physical powers, an impression, in the first instance, could,
with the greatest chance of success, be made on the diseased
mind ; and when the unfortunate man recovered from his
fit, I endeavoured to convince him that he was unwell in
body and required medicine. He scarcely deigned to reply
to me on a subject so far beneath his attention, engrossed
as it was with an evil of so gigantic a kind ; and sullenly
and sarcastically required me to send him a dose of arsenic.
I laid on the table what I thought would benefit him,
along with the necessary directions, and left him still groan-
ing under the agony of his imagined infliction.

In the passage, I met the gay and hilarious Angelina, who
again inquired, laughing, when her father would be in a
condition to dance — unaware of my private knowledge of
what gave a humour to this turn of her natural vivacity.
A servant, in the meantime, whispered in my ear that Mrs

H waited for me in an adjoining room. I hastened to

her, and, to my surprise, found her extended on a couch,
bathed in tears, and apparently under the infliction of some
intense sorrow.

" Oh, why have you concealed this disaster from me ?"
she cried, as I advanced.

" What disaster, madam ?" said I.

"The loss of the Mermaid," replied she, crying and
sobbing bitterly.

" Is it true, then ?" said I, starting with astonishment.

" Who should know better than my husband ?" said she.

I was instantly relieved by her answer. On inquiry, I
found that the servant had overheard a part of the convers-
ation between me and Mr H , and communicated it to

her mistress. I explained everything to her, and she was
satisfied on this great subject of alarm ; but she had still a
difficulty to struggle with. The marriage of her daughter
drew near, and how would her husband be got prevailed
upon to fulfil his obligation to pay the dowry often thousand
pounds, if he continued under the dark cloud of mental
delusion whose inspissated gloom strangled the very rays
of the instinctive perception of primary and elemental truths?
I acknowledged that there was great difficulty in the case,
and suggested that the marriage might take place in the
meantime, and the obligation for the tocher left to be got
signed afterwards, when the Mermaid came home. T.
plan did not however, please ; an^ I suspected, though she

102

TALES OF THE BOHDEHS.

had too much delicacy to admit it, that the obligation for
the cash was hold a kind of sine qua non by the bridegroom.
I, therefore, promised to consider seriously of some means
of relieving her from the extraordinary position in which
she and her family were placed ; and, in the meantime,
recommended to her to use her own exertions in getting her
husband to take the medicines I had ordered ; leaving to
lier own discretion, to break to him the subject of his
tenors, or keep it, in the meantime, within her own bosom,
as she conceived most prudent ; but enjoining, in any view,
to preserve inviolate my honour with the invalid, over
whom my power could be only co-extensive with the faith
he reposed in me.

Next day, I had another communing with Mrs II ,

who informed me that, on the previous night, she had
witnessed the most dreadful scene she had ever experienced
during her life. Mr H , unable longer to restrain him-
self, had, with tears of lamentation, told her she must
prepare herself for becoming a beggar ; that the Mermaid
was lost, and his brother William, for Avhom he had become
surety to the extent of fifteen thousand pounds, had suddenly
failed, whereby he would have that money to pay. Her
efforts to undeceive him produced an absolute frenzy ; he
tore the bandages from his temples, uttered loud screams of
agony, sank suddenly into fits of gloomy silence, then passed
into paroxysms of weeping, and fell on her neck, sobbing
like a child. His condition since had only been a con-
tinuation of this misery. She did not know what to do ;
because, if she were to promulgate his condition, with a
view to getting friends and acquaintances to come and
endeavour to undeceive him, she might injure his mer-
cantile interests and credit, and produce that very ruin he
so much dreaded. In the meantime, the day of the
marriage approached apace; and she now candidly confessed
that, if there was any demur about advancing the tocher,
the bridegroom might refuse to perform his part of the
engagement, whereby her fragile daughter might lose her
life, and at all events her happiness for ever. I told her
I had not yet come to any satisfactory conclusion ; but
recommended to her to send to all the friends of the sea-
men on board the Mermaid, to ascertain if any letters had
come to them, and, if possible, to get hold of them.

In the evening, a message came to me from Mrs H ,

informing me that she had ascertained that no letters had
yet arrived from any of the seamen of the Mermaid. I re-
volved all the peculiarities and difficulties of this extraor-
dinary case in my mind during the night, and bethought
myself of the excusable expedient of removing the fatal
deception of the patient by a humane and innocent imposi-
tion— to destroy falsehood by falsehood, and thereby elicit
truth. My plan was to get reprinted a metropolitan news-
paper, containing a superinduced entry, as if from Lloyd's,
of the arrival of the Mermaid at her place of destination,
and to lay this paper within the reach of the deluded inva-
lid. I communicated this plan to Mrs H , who ap-
proved of it ; and, on the same day, gave instructions to a
printer, in whom I could repose confidence, to put his part
of the scheme into execution. He entered cordially into
the device, and, next forenoon, sent me a proof of the paper
and the fictitious entry, which I immediately revised and
returned to him, with directions to send me the perfect copy
in the evening. About seven o'clock, accordingly, a young
man brought me the paper, stating that his master had been
obliged to leave the town in the afternoon ; but that I might
rely upon the accuracy of the copy, which had been care-
fully thrown oft* by his foreman. I immediately carried it

to Mrs II , who undertook to lay it i™ such a position as

would secure the eye of her husband. The matrimonial
contract, she said, required to be signed on the 16th, two
days after, according to the agreement of the parties ; and,
owing to the state of her husband, she had resolved upon

the marriage being celebrated afterwards privately. She
beseeched me strongly to attend and witness the contract,
whereby I might have an opportunity of facilitating the
completion of this most delicate and dangerous negotiation.

On the day and hour appointed, I attended accordingly.
The scene presented to me, as I entered the sick man's
chamber, was extraordinary and striking. The window
shutters were still half closed, and the room nearly dark,

Augustus A and Angelina were sitting opposite to each

other at the aperture of the window ; their faces, on which
the light shone by the side of deep shadows, exhibiting that
mixture of love, joy, fear, and solicitude, which the pecu-
liar circumstances of their situation could not fail to pro-
duce in hearts whose sympathies were moved by the elas-
tic springs of an affection which had not been crossed, and
hopes that never had been blighted. The mother sat silently
looking at her husband, who, rolled up in the manner al-
ready described, sat immerged in a mood of gloomy de-
spair, his head leaning on his breast, his eyebrows knit, his
eyes fixed on the fire, his mouth sealed with a sullen, ob-
stinate silence, and everything indicating either that he was
unconscious of what was to be enacted in his presence, or
determined not to take a friendly part in it. I seated my-
self opposite to him, and was saluted by a half scowling,
half timid look, which, having scanned me hurriedly,
sought again the fire. The meeting of friends collected to
witness a coffin-lifting of a dear relative, could not have
presented a more funereal, gloomy, and dismal aspect — the
shadows being relieved, in the one case, by the lurid smilo
of expectant heirs, and in the other, by the struggling
gleam of the doubtful joy of the bridegroom and bride. At
length, the man of the law came with the important docu-
ment ; and, having his bustling, officious importance and
familiarity blasted by the sullen growl of the hypochondriac,
sat down in disappointment and irresolution. After some
words of ceremony, approaching to the sombreness of the
preliminaries of a service over the dead, the deed was read,
purporting, in the usual terms, that the two parties had
agreed to accept of each other for lawful spouses, and that,
in consideration of a jointure of five hundred pounds a-year,
the father of the bride had agreed to advance the sum of
ten thousand pounds as the tocher of his daughter. When
the deed was read, all was silent. The bridegroom adhib-
ited his name first, and the bride, suffused with blushes
and " smiling inwardly," followed his example. It was
now placed before the father, and the lawyer held out to
him the pen, fraught, after a dipping and a redipping, with
the nicely adjusted quota of ink, for the purpose of his
signing his name.

The company sat for a few minutes silently looking at
the attitude of the man of the law, who still held out the
pen to the invalid. A loud, horrible, fiendish cackle of a laugh
wrung spasmodically from the dry throat of the hypochon
driac, rang through the apartment, and filled every face
with consternation and terror. I do not recollect of ever
having heard a sound so unearthly, so much beyond all
powers of description — a noise so compounded of all the
elements of discordancy. It seemed the accumulated ex-
pression of all his griefs, terrors, and misery. Thrusting
his hand, with a fluttering, trembling precipitude, into the
pocket of his gown, he dragged forth the newspaper con-
taining the fictitious announcement of the arrival of the
Mermaid, and waved it triumphantly over his head.

' It is not enough," he cried, still throwing the paper
backwards and forwards like a pendant, "that a pooi
wretch, doomed to beggary and starvation, should have hij
fate to struggle with, unaided by the co-operation or soothed
by the sympathy of relatives and friends .' No ! there
must be added — by the agency of the Devil acting through
the cruel refinements of a wife's treachery, a doctor's cun-
ning, and a daughter's selfishness — the injury and insult of a

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

103

degrading deception — an imposition, a cheat. Though
reduced to beggary, I am not yet, thank God ! deserted by
my perception of truth, and my love of honesty and fail-
dealing. ' The Mermaid has arrived'" (looking at the paper,
and repeating his screech laugh) "'safe — all well!' And who
tells us this glorious news ? No other than Mr Gilbert

S , Printer in Street of our own town of , whose

name is placed here — here" (pointing to the print) " to this
London paper, as a guarantee, a pledge of the truth of his
information. Excellent cheat ! Noble device ! Ingenious
trickery ! How worthy of the jugglers, and the poor,
wretched, miserable beggar attempted to be juggled !"

I seized the paper, which, as he fell back screaming out
his hysterical laugh, he threw from him. Heavens ! what

was my surprise to find it indeed true that Mr S 's

foreman, to whom the secret had not been communicated,
had, in his master's absence, placed, according to the custom
}f printers in ordinary matters, his master's name at the
foot of the London newspaper ! I had ruined the whole
proceedings ; all the consequences of this broken off mar-
riage were on my head. I had even riveted in this poor
man's mind the certainty of the loss of the Mermaid ; shame,
regret, and self-crimination stung me like adders ; and
such was the intensity of my suffering, and the darkness,
doubt, and confusion of mind into which I was thrown,
that I was scarcely conscious of the extraordinary scene
still acting around me. I was called to a more attentive
observation by the question of the man of the law, addressed

to Mr H , whether he intended to sign the document,

as an engagement called him away.

" No !" resounded in my still confused ears — " why
should a poor beggar, not worth one penny in the world,
sign a bond for ten thousand pounds? By and by, I will be
grateful for a penny to buy me a crust of bread."

The thunderstruck writer, to whom an account was due
by Mr II , recoiled at a statement so extraordinary;

the bridegroom, unjustifiably afraid that some improper
use might be made of his signature, darted forward, seized
the marriage contract, and, hurrying out of the door, flew
from a beggared bride- My ears were now stung by the
screams of the two women, the mother and the daughter,
who both fainted on the floor, and the occasional bursts of
the hypochondriac's sardonic laugh mixing with the wails of
distress of the wretched females. Alarmed by the noise,
the servants of the house rushed into the room, to administer
assistance to those whose cries seemed so urgently to
demand it ;. and I contributed my endeavours to the restor-
ation of the sufferers. The mother recovered in a short
time, and soon saw the full extent of the misery that sur-
rounded her ; but, being a strong-minded woman, she
defied a repetition of the syncope — an effort in which the
fragile and volatile daughter was not so successful ; for she
ao sooner revived from one swoon than she fell, screaming,
into another ; sent back, by the dreadful consciousness of
her condition, into this state of heaven-sent, humane
oblivion of misery. While tending these sufferers, I threw
a glance occasionally at him who suffered, from the mere
power of a deluded imagination, a thousand times more
than those whose tender constitution of body limited
the infliction of agony — him who could not faint and
could not weep, but who could yet laugh that dreadful
laugh of the miserable which no man can forget who
once hears it as I have heard it, but cannot describe
it. His head was now swung over the side of the chair,
as if he had lost all power of upholding it ; his bosom
heaved with convulsive throes, his arms sawed the air, his
feet shuffled along the floor, and groans, mixed with that
horrid spasmodic cackle, burst from him, piercing the ear
like the yells of a demon. Having consigned the women
to the care of the servants, I left hurriedly this scene, the
moral cause of which I could be of no service in endeavour-

[ ing to relieve. However familiar I had become with scenes
of distress, the new and peculiar features of the one I have
here attempted to describe, scared away the apathy of cus-
tom and habit, and seized my feelings and interest more
powerfully and painfully than I can be able to express by
the narrative 1 have here given.

Next forenoon, I called on Mrs II , and found her

under great affliction. She told me that her daughter was
confined to bed, and that her swooning fits returned upon
her whenever her mind acquired power and sensibility
sufficient to estimate the true extent of her suffering for
she could not be made to believe that the loss of the Mer-
maid and the poverty and beggary of her father was a
dream of hypochondria ; and treated the attempt of her
mother to produce this belief as a mere act of maternal
sympathy, to conceal from her her deplorable fate in losing a
lover and the means of living at the same time. She in-
formed me also that she had seen Augustus A , who

was as obstinate as her daughter in his belief that what
her husband had said was true, giving as his reason that he
had never heard that Mr II was mad ; and pro-
ceeding so far as to accuse her and myself of an attempt, by
the falsified newspaper, to get matters so arranged as to
inveigle him into a match with the daughter of one on the
eve of becoming a bankrupt. I replied, that I now saw
no alternative, in our efforts to cure those ingeniously con-
trived disasters, other than waiting for the captain of the
Mermaid's letter of advice, which could not fail to arrive
in a very short time. I had scarcely uttered these words, '
when Mr H 's clerk handed in a letter from King-
ston. We were surprised and pleased at this curious coin-
cidence ; and I agreed to remain until Mrs H took

up to her husband this piece of evidence, which could not
fail to open his eyes, and cure all the evils that had re-
sulted from his delusion. In a short time after Mrs II

left the room, I heard the well-known sound of the ex-
pression of an exacerbation of the hypochondriac's suffer-
ings, mixed, as I thought, with a repetition of the same
spasmodic laugh ; and I was now surprised by the appear-
ance of Mrs H , bathed in tears, and holding in her

hand the fragments of the letter which had been torn to

pieces. She informed me that Mr H had read the

letter, and had cried out, immediately 011 perusing it, that
it was not written in the captain's hand ; that it was
another attempt to impose upon him ; and that we deserved
to be handed over to the authorities for forging the post-
mark. On putting the pieces of the letter together, we
perceived that it was signed by the captain ; but, in con-
sequence of his having got his hand hurt, written by some
other person — yet undoubtedly a genuine document, com-
municating the safe arrival of the Mermaid at the port of
Kingston. It was now, we both agreed, necessary to
wait the arrival of the vessel itself.

In the meantime, I continued my visits, communicating

through Mrs H with the patient, who, conceiving

me to be in the plot against him, would not consent to
see me. His body was undergoing a gradual decay, from
the effects of the moral poison continually instilled into
the nerves of the brain, the centre of the living powers ol
the system, as well as the seat of the mind ; while his liver,
getting enlarged, generated the food of the mental disease,
which, in its turn, preyed on hisflesh — producinga marasmus
assimilating him to a living skeleton. The darkness of the
room he occupied was gradually increased, so as to suit his
tender vision, which shrunk at the light of day ; and it
was subsequently necessary to muffle the bell of the door,
to prevent its sound from throwing him into a fit of hyste-
rics, in the apprehension of messengers, tipstaffs, and
sheriff-officers, who, he said, were haunting the house,
ready to pounce upon him the instant tbey got a glimpse of
his joerson. He was evidently fast falling into a general

104

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

cachexia, or depraved habit of body, which would eventually
defy all the restorative powers of medicine, as well as the
influence of a renewed belief, even if such could be stimu-
lated in his brain by a natural perception of external evi-
dence. His daughter, too, was still confined to bed by a
slow fever, resulting from the fearful excitement she had
suffered on the day of the signing of the contract.

While matters were in this desperate condition, the
Mermaid arrived with a rich cargo from Jamaica. I saw
the Captain previous to his first interview with his owner,
gave him directions how to conduct himself, and requested
him to call and communicate to me the result of the meet-
ing. In a few hours afterwards, he came running to me

in great haste, and informed me that Mr H was

assuredly mad ; that he had gazed at him as if he had been
an apparition — requesting to know how he had saved him-
self from the wreck of the Mermaid, and whether any of
the crew were saved ; but prohibiting him, by dreadful
oaths, from recapitulating the circumstances of the loss,
which, he said, he could not hear from the lips of an eye-
witness, and live an hour after. When the Captain replied
that the Mermaid was in the harbour, he rose in great fury,
cried that the narrator was leagued with his other enemies,
who wanted to impose on him, and threatened to strike him
if he did not instantly leave the room. After what I had
witnessed, I was not surprised even at this. There was
only one expedient now remaining — to carry him by force,
ill as he was, on board of the ship, and present to his eyes
the corpus reale of the Mermaid herself.

This was done the very next day. The patient was by
far too weak to offer any resistance. He was told that he
was ordered by the doctor to take an airing. Two men
lifted him down stairs, and placed him in a sedan chair, for
the greater facility of transporting him on board. I was
waiting him on the deck, along with Mrs H , the Cap-
tain, and two confidential friends, while the crew were
directed to be working about, so as to add the weight of the
testimony of their living bodies to the evidence of the wood,
ropes, and sails of the vessel. The sedan chair was placed
in the middle of the deck ; and we stood around to witness
the effects of the apparition of the lost Mermaid, on the
diseased mind of the patient. When the head of the chair was
lifted off and the door opened, the spectacle presented to our
view was most appalling, transcending even the fancy of a
resurrection from the dead. His skin was of the colour of an
orange, and seemed to envelope a heap of bones, bound toge-
ther by gristles — no muscular amplification being in any part
visible ; his jaws, and the thin tendinous muscles intended
to cover and move them, were as rigid as if they had been
frozen by a hyperborean winter; a thick shock of black
hair, that had not been cut for a long period, hung down
over his yellow forehead, and partly concealed his eyes ;
the nails upon his fingers, which he would not allow mortal
to touch, had grown long and sharp, resembling more the
talons of an eagle than the appurtenances of men's hands : —
everything indicated the diseased, immured troglodite, or
cave-man, brought out to see, before he died, the rays of
the mid-day sun. As the light to which he had been so
long unaccustomed struck his eyes, he winced and groaned,
turning the yellow orbs backwards and forwards, shutting
his eyelids, opening them again, like one awakening from
a long sleep, and rubbing them with his fingers, as if to
ease his pain, and, at same time, to remove a supposed
mirage which tormented him by its delusion. Beginning
to wonder at the strange sights exhibited to him — the
change from his own apartment to a ship's-deck, from
darkness to light, and from loneliness to society, with the
cries of the seamen's " yo-he-vo," the dashing of the waves
against the sides of the vessel, and the motion of the
pitching bark, which was in an exposed part of the outer
harbour he rose from his seat, and looked wildly over the

top of the sedan, eyeing us, along with the passing seamen
— whose faces he scanned curiously — with the greatest
amazement, not unmixed with terror and struggling, appa-
rently to force some satisfactory conclusion out of a com-
parison of riveted beliefs and perplexing appearances. No
one spoke to him, all being deeply occupied in watching
the strange symptoms of the first returning ray of reason
and belief on a mind so long clouded and deranged by
gloomy delusions and visionary imaginations. He con-
tinued to scan everything with the most minute attention
— shuddering at intervals, as if he saw an apparition —
casting on us looks of suspicion, and then brightening up
with gleams of reviving confidence. At last, his eye was
firmly riveted on some object in the direction of the main-
mast— his gaze becoming so stedfast and keen that his very
soul seemed to be centred in it. We all turned our eyes
in the same direction ; but I saw nothing calculated to
produce so much excitement. In an instant, a loud scream
rent the air — the hypochondriac rushed forward with the
last collected strength of his attenuated frame, and, clasp-
ing his arms round the main-mast, at a place where his
name was painted in the semicircle of the indispensable
horse-shoe, hugged it till his nerves seemed to crack, and,
drawing a deep sigh, fell down on the deck. I thought the
experiment was fatal — that the clouded mind had been
unable to bear the coup de soleil of truth — that he was dead !

I ran forward and lifted him up. In a short time he
recovered, and looked around him wildly ; but he had
received his specific — even the scepticism of his disease had
begun to give way to touch. When he was lifted up, he
took my arm, and walked round and round the vessel,
looking at everything, touching everything ; and, as the
evidence grew stronger and stronger, bursting out into
strange hollow laughs. No one yet interfered to give any
explanation ; for I deemed it better to let the real evidence
work its effect in the first instance, before any moral con-
firmation was offered. The process was slow ; the shadows
of scepticism seemed to hang about his mind, and contest
every inch of the mental province with the beams of the
searching light of the evidence of sense. Yet he became
gradually stronger and stronger in his belief; and, before
we left the vessel, was as much satisfied of the safety and
identity of the Mermaid, as he was formerly of her loss and
his own ruin. He was taken home, and the effects of the
new conviction became soon apparent, producing a reaction
of confidence, and brightening up his mind with the cheer-
ing rays of hope. A healthy mind is the best medicine for
a diseased body — he became gradually better and better,
and latterly entirely recovered.

When he became quite well, I used often to talk with
him about the state of his mind during that dark period.
He felt no disinclination to speak of it. He said that the
most remarkable circumstance was, that all his fancies wert
invested with that same conviction of truth which generally
accompanies the evidence of the five senses. One good
effect, he said, followed from the hallucination ; and that
was, that his blindness enabled him to see through the heart
of his intended son-in-law ; for he was satisfied that nothing
but his declaration of poverty would have elicited the un-
worthy motives of Augustus A . He succeeded in

satisfying his daughter that her lover was unworthy of her ;
and, some years afterwards, another and more worthy suitor
having sought her hand, succeeded, and a dowry of £10,000
was paid down on the marriage day.

WILSON'S

n'ttd, afraMttonavg, antr Etnas

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE KATHERAN

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he —

He played a spring and danced it roun

Beneath the gallows tree.

fN the latter end of the summer of the year 1700. as a
party, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen, were
returning to Banff, the place of their residence, from a
distant excursion into the Highlands, they were overtaken
by the dusk of evening in the Pass of Benmore, one of the
wildest and most desolate spots in the north of Scotland.
The ladies of this party were both young, and one of them,
in particular, surpassingly beautiful. This lady's name was
Ellen Martin, the daughter of a gentleman of great wealth,
residing in the neighbourhood of the town above named.
At the period we introduce her to the reader, Ellen had
just completed her nineteenth year. She was rather under
than above the average stature of her sex ; but her fragile
form was exquisitely moulded, and perfect in all its pro-
portions. Her countenance was oval, glowing with health,
and strikingly expressive of a disposition at once confiding,
open, and affectionate. In truth, it was impossible to look
on the youthful form of Ellen Martin, without feeling that
you saw before you the very perfection of female loveliness.
But, if there was any particular time or occasion when
that beauty was seen to greater advantage than another,
it might have been when, shaking aside with a gentle
motion of her head the profusion of fair glossy ringlets
with which it was adorned, she looked up with her large
intelligent, but soft blue eye, and her small rosy lips
apart, to catch more distinctly what conversation might be
passing around her. At such a moment, and in such an
attitude as this, she seemed, indeed, more like one of those
aerial beings that fancy delights to create, than a creature
of mortal mould.

The female companion of Ellen Martin, on the occasion
of which we have spoken and are about more fully to
speak, was an intimate friend. One of the gentlemen was
a near relation of Ellen's, the other the brother of her
friend. The party, all of whom were mounted on little
Highland ponies, having been overtaken by the dusk, began
to feel rather uneasy at their situation, as they had yet
fully fifteen miles of wild and hilly road to travel before
they could reach any place of shelter. They had been per-
fectly aware, when they set out in the morning, of the dis-
tance they had to accomplish, and knew, also, that con-
siderable expedition was required to enable them to com-
plete with daylight the necessary journey ; but, full of health
and spirits, and possessed of tastes capable of enabling
them to enjoy the splendid scenery which had met them
at every turn in their mountain path, they had loitered on
the way till they found that they had expended all their
time, and had yet accomplished little more than half
their journey. In this dilemma, there was nothing for
it but to push on — a simple enough corrective of their
error apparently, but one by no means to them of very easy
adoption ; for they did not well know in what direction to
proceed. Under these circumstances, one of the gentlemen
called a halt of the party, to consider of what was best to
118. VOL. Ill

be done, and to see if their united intelligence could make
out where they were precisely, and help to the selection of
the best route by which to prosecute their journey. To add
to the unpleasantness of their situation, it began to rain
heavily, and occasional peals of distant thunder growled
amidst the hills.

The party were at this instant crowded together beneatb
the shelter of a projecting rock, whither they had retired,
to avoid the beating rain, and to hold the consultation to
which we have above alluded. Unpleasant, however, as
their situation was, they felt no great alarm. The ladies
indeed, expressed some uneasiness occasionally; but it
was quickly banished by the rattling glee of their male
companions, who, elated with experiencing something like
an adventure, were in high spirits, and endeavoured to
communicate the same feeling to their fair friends. Ellen,
who with all her gentleness of nature and delicacy of
form, was of a highly romantic and enthusiastic dispo-
sition, was gazing pensively on the mighty masses of hill
that rose around her on all sides, and anon down into the
deep hollow of the pass, to whose highest point they had
nearly attained, when she thought she perceived, through
the obscurity of the twilight, a human figure ascending the
pass in the direction of the party. She called the attention
of her friends to the approaching object, which, in a few
minutes, was sufficiently near to exhibit the outline of a
man of tall stature. Pie was advancing rapidly, with the
light springy step peculiar to the Highlanders, and was
traversing with apparent ease, ground, which, from its
ruggedness and steepness, would have rendered the pro-
gress of one unaccustomed to such travelling, slow, labo-
rious and painful. The person now approaching, seemed
not to feel any such difficulties. He bounded lightly and
rapidly over the ground, and in a few minutes was within
a few yards of where they stood. On observing the party,
he made towards them, and, doffing his bonnet with great
politeness, and with the air of a prince, inquired, after
apologizing for his intrusion, whether they stood in need
of any such assistance as one who knew the country well
could afford them, and was ready to give.

The person who now stood before the party, and who made
this friendly inquiry, was a young gentleman — at least one
whose appearance and manner bespoke him to be such. He
was dressed in the full Highland costume of a person of con-
sideration of the period to which our tale refers; but was fully
more amply and carefully armed than was even then usual
amongst his countrymen. In his belt he wore, besides the
dirk, the common appendage, a couple of pistols, and, by
his side, a broadsword of the most formidable dimensions.
The figure of this person, who appeared to be about five-
and-twenty years of age, was singularly handsome ; his
countenance mild and pleasing in its expression, yet strongly
indicative of a bold and determined spirit — advantages
which were finely set off by the picturesque dress in which
he was arrayed, and which he wore with much dignity and
grace, and by his erect and martial bearing. His whole
figure, in, short, was remarkably striking and prepossess-
ing. .

"I fear," said the stranger, addressing the party, an<
smiling as he spoke, "that you have miscalculated tJM|

106

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

height of our hills and the breadth of our muirs, that you
are so late abroad."

" It is even so, sir," said one of the gentlemen ; " we
have been idling our time, and are now reaping the fruits
of our thoughtlessness. We neither know well where
we are, nor which way we ought to go. I suppose we
must just make the most of the situation we are in for the
night, although these rocks are but very indifferent cover-
ing."

" Why, I must say I would not feel much for your
case, gentlemen," said the stranger, fl though you had to
sleep on the heather for a night — I have done it a thousand
times ; but such quarters would ill suit these fair ladies, I
fenr."

" Yet they must be content to put up with it for this
night at any rate," said one of the gentlemen ; " for we can
make no better of it."

" Perhaps we may make better of it," said the stranger.
" Something must be done to get these ladies under shelter.
Let me see." And he mused for a moment, then added —
" If I thought you would not be overly nice as to the ele-
gance of your quarters, and if you would accompany me
for a distance of a couple of miles or so, I think I could
promise you, at least, the shelter of a roof, and such enter-
tainment as our Highland huts afford."

The friendly offer of the stranger being gladly accepted
by the party, who, one and all, declared they would be
exceedingly thankful for any sort of quarters, the whole set
forward under the conduct of their guide. Whether
directed by choice or by chance, the latter, at starting, took
Ellen's pony by the bridle, and was subsequently most assi-
duous in guiding the animal by the easiest and safest tracks.
Nor did he once quit his hold for a moment during the
whole of their march. This circumstance naturally placed
Ellen and the stranger frequently by themselves ; since, as
eaders, they generally kept several yards in advance of
their party — a circiimstance which was not lost on the
latter, who aimed at, and succeeded in making, perhaps, a
somewhat more than favourable impression on his fair com-
panion, by his polished manners and lively and intelligent
conversation.

We will not say that the effect of these qualifications
was not heightened by the personal elegance and manly
beauty of their possessor ; neither will we say that the
romantic and susceptible girl was not predisposed, by the
same cause, to discover, in all he said, fully more, perhaps,
than would have been apparent to a more indifferent
listener. Be this as it may, it is certain that, on this night
and on this particular occasion, Ellen Martin felt, and felt
for the first time, the to her new, strange, and delight-
ful emotions of incipient love. What avails it to say that
prudence should have forbidden this ? The object of Ellen's
sudden regard was a stranger, a total stranger. His name
even was not known, nor his rank in society otherwise than
by conjecture ; which, though favourable, was, of course,
vague and uncertain. The circumstances, too, in which he
had been met with, were such as to preclude all possibility
of connecting any one single elucidatory fact with his his-
tory. But when, in a young and inexperienced mind, did
love submit to be controlled by reason ? and when did the
young heart exhibit the faculty of resisting impressions at
will ? Certainly not in the case of Ellen Martin, who was,
at this moment, placed precisely in those circumstances
most eminently calculated for exciting, in susceptible
bosoms, the one great and engrossing passion of the female
heart.

After about an hour's travelling, the party, with their
guide, arrived at a solitary house situated in a little glen
or strath overhung with precipitous rocks, and through
v,-hich wound a narrow and irregular road that led in one
direction over the hills that stretched far to the west, and

in the other to the lower grounds, from which the neigh-
bouring mountains rose. The house itself, although ap-
parently a very old one, was of the better order of houses
in the Highlands at that period. It was two stories in
height, roofed with grey slate, and exhibited at wide inter -
vals small dingy windows filled lUCh the thick, wavy, and
obscure glass of the time. Altogether, it had the appear •
ancc of being the residence of a person of the rank of a
small proprietor or tacksman. As the party approached
the house, all was quiet within and around it. Not a light
was seen, or movement heard. The hour was late and
the inmates had been long to rest. When within a short
distance of the house, the conductor of the party, addressing
the latter, said —

" You will be so good as wait here, my friends, for a few
minutes, until I prepare Mr Chisholm for your reception.
He is an old and intimate friend of mine, and will be glad, on
my account, to shew you every kindness in his power."

Having thus expressed himself, he left them, and, in a
few moments after, returned to conduct them to the house,
where they were received with great kindness by the land-
lord, a middle-aged man of respectable appearance and
mild manners. On entering, the party were ushered into
a large room, where a servant girl was busily emplo}red in
kindling a fire of peats. These quickly bursting into flame,
the travellers, in a very few minutes, found themselves
enjoying the agreeable warmth of a blazing fire. But the
kindness of their host was not limited to external comforts.
With true Highland hospitality, the board was loaded with
refreshments of various kinds ; huge piles of oaten cake,
with proportionable quantities of eggs, cheese, butter, cold
salmon, and mutton ham ; and, though last not least, a little
round, black, dumpy bottle of genuine mountain dew.

Delighted with their reception, pleased with each other,
and urged into that exuberance of spirits which good cheer
and comfortable quarters are so well qualified to inspire,
especially when they present themselves so unexpectedly
and opportunely as in the case of which we are speaking — •
the party soon began to get exceedingly merry ; so much
so, that they finally determined, as morning was now fast
approaching, not to retire to bed at all, but to spend the
few hours they intended remaining where they were. In
this resolution they were the m.ore readily confirmed, by a
certain proceeding of their late guide, in happy accordance
with the mirthful feelings of the moment. This was his
taking down from the wall a fiddle, which hung invitingly
over the fire-place, and striking up some of the liveliest
airs of his native land. The effect was irresistible ; for he
played with singular grace and skill, striking out the notes
with a distinctness, precision, and rapidity, that gave
the fullest effect possible to the merry strains which he
poured on the ears of the captivated listeners. The party
were electrified. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, the
table was removed bodily, with all its furniture, to one side of
the apartment, and, in an instant after, the ladies alse were
on the floor. In another, the whole were wheeling through
the mazes of a Highland reel. Nor did the merriment cease
till the rising sun alarmed the revellers, by suddenly pour-
ing his effulgence into the apartment. On this hint, the
music and mirth both were instantly hushed; and the party,
throwing aside the levity of manner of the preceding hours,
began, with business looks, to prepare for their departure.
Their hostpressed them to stay breakfast; but, being anxious
at once to get forward and to enjoy the morning ride, this
invitation they declined. Their ponies, which had been in
the meantime carefully attended to by their hospitable
landlord, were brought to the door, and in a few minutes
the whole party were mounted, and were about to start,
when the circumstance of their late guide's again taking the
reins of Ellen's pony in his hand, and apparently preparing
to repeat the service of the previous night, for a moment

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

107

arrested their march ; all protesting that they would on no
account permit him to put himself, by accompanying them,
to the slightest further inconvenience on their account.
With what sincerity Ellen joined in this protest — for she
did join in it — we do not know ; hut it is certain that her
opposition to his accompanying them did not appear at all
so cordial as that of her companions.

The objections of the party, however, were politely, hut
peremptorily overruled by their guide, who reconciled them
to his determination of escorting them, by remarking that,
without his assistance, they would never find their way
amongst the hills, and that, moreover, he was going at any
rate several miles in the very direction in which their route
lay. These assurances, particularly the latter, left no room
for farther debate, and the party proceeded on their way ;
the guide and Ellen, as before, leading the march. But, as
it was now daylight when any little chance distance that
might occur between the parties was of less consequence
and less attended to, they were always much farther in ad-
vance than on the preceding night ; indeed, frequently so
far as to be for a considerable time out of sight of their
companions. In this proceeding, Ellen had, of course, no
share whatever. It was solely the result of a certain little
course of management on the part of her escort, who
availed himself of every opportunity of widening the dis-
tance between his fair companion and the other members
of the party. It was on one of these occasions, when the
lovers — for we may now without hesitation call them
such — had turned the shoulder of a hill which Ellen's guide
knew, calculating from the distance which the party were
behind, would conceal them from the view of the latter for
a considerable time — it was on this occasion, we say, that
he suddenly seized Ellen by the hand, and, ere she was
nware, hurried it to his lips ; but, as quickly resigning it —
" Ellen," he said, looking up to her with an expression of
tenderness and contrition that instantly disarmed the gen-
tle girl of the resentment into which the freedom he had
just taken had for an instant betrayed her — "forgive me —
will you forgive me ? That cursed impetuosity of tem-
per— the failing of my race, Ellen — has hurried me into an
impropriety. I have offended you. I see it — but do for-
give me."

" On condition that you do not attempt to repeat it,"
said Ellen, smiling, though there was evidently much agita-
tion in her manner.

" I promise," replied the offender. A pause ensued,
during which neither spoke. At length, Ellen's guide, who
seemed to have been struggling with some powerful and
oppressive emotion, suddenly, but gently arrested the pro-
gress of the pony on which she rode, and said, in a voice
altered in tone by intensity of feeling—

" Ellen, I wish to God we had never met !"
" Why should you entertain such a wish ?" inquired
Ellen, timidly, and blushing as she spoke.

"• Because then I had not been broken-hearted," said her
companion, with a sigh. " I had still retained my peace oi
mind — my step should still have been light on the heather,
and my thoughts free and careless as the wind upon the
mountains."

" You speak in enigmas," replied Ellen, blushing deeper
than before. " I do not understand you," she added
but Avith a manner that contradicted the assertion.

" Then I will be more plain with you, Ellen," replied her
companion : — " 1 love you, I love you, fair girl, to distrac-
tion."

This declaration was too unequivocal to be evaded ; ye
poor Ellen, though her heart responded to the sentiment
knew not what reply to make in words. Her agitation was
extreme — so great as almost to impede her respiration.

" We are strangers, sir," she at length said — " tota
strangers ; and such lanftuaie as this should, if spoken at all

be spoken only when it is warranted by a longer and more
intimate acquaintance. Ours is literally but of yesterday,
although you have certainly crowded into that short spaco
as much kindness as it would possibly admit of ; and I and
my friends are grateful for it — sincerely grateful. Still we
are but strangers."

" Strangers, Ellen !" replied her lover, getting more and
more energetic and impassioned as he spoke — " no, we are
not strangers — at least you are none to me. From the first
instant I saw you, you were no longer a stranger. From
that instant, you had a home in this heart, and on that
instant you stood before me confessed one of the loveliest
and gentlest of your sex. What more would an age oi
acquaintance have discovered ? What more is there need
to learn."

At this instant, a shout from one of the gentlemen of the
party interrupted the enthusiastic speaker, and put an end,
for the time, to the conversation of the lovers. The call
however, that had been made on their attention by their
friend, being merely intended to intimate that they had
them in view, Ellen's guide soon found another oppor-
tunity of renewing his suit. We do not, however, think it
necessary that we should renew a description of it — tedious
as the conversation of all lovers are to third parties. We
shall only say, then, that, long ere Ellen and her handsome
and accomplished guide parted, the affections of the simple,
confiding girl were unalterably fixed. Whether they were
happily disposed of, the sequel will shew.

After having crossed " muirs and mountains mony o',"
Ellen and her lover arrived on the ridge of a hill, which
commanded a distinct, though distant view of the town of
Banff, when the latter suddenly stopped, and — " Ellen,"
he said, " here we must part. I can proceed no farther with
you ; but it will go hard with me if I do not see you very
soon again."

" Nay," said Ellen, " since you have come so far with us,
you must go yet a little farther. You must go on to the
town, and afford us an opportunity of acknowledging the
obligations under which we lie to you. My father will be
most happy to see you."

The expression of a sudden pang crossed the fine counte-
nance of the stranger. His lip quirered, and his brow con-
tracted into momentary gloom; but, with what was apparently
a strong effort, he subdued the feeling, whatever it was,
which had caused this indication of mental pain, and
replied, after a brief pause —

" No, Ellen, it cannot be. I must not — I — I dare not
enter Banff with the light of day."

" Dare not !" said Ellen, in surprise. " Why dare you
not ? What or whom have you to fear ?"

"Fear?" replied her companion, somewhat distractedly —
" I fear the face of no single man, weapon to weapon ; but,
were I to enter Banff, I might not have such fair play. There
are some persons there with whom I am at feud; and my life
would be in danger from them. This was what I meant, when
I said that I dared not enter Banff.^ Yet it is not that I
would not dare either," he added, raising himself proudly
to his full height, and laying an emphasis expressive of
defiance on the word ; "but it would be foolhardy — absurdly
imprudent. I cannot — I may not go further with you,
Ellen."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach
of the rest of the party, who at this moment rode up to
Ellen and her companion. These, on being told ^that the
latter was now about to leave them, repeated, and in nearly
similar words, the invitation which Ellen had already given
him ; but it was not in similar words to those he had used
on that occasion, he answered them. To them he merely
said that pressing business called him in another direction,
and repeated that, where they now were, they must part.
He however, promised, though with the manner of one

103

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

who has no fixed intention of fulfilling that promise, that
the first time he went to Banff, if circumstances would
permit, he would certainly pay them a visit.

" Since you will not go with us, then/' said one of the
gentlemen, " at least inform us to whom we are indebted
for the extraordinary kindness which you have shewn us.
Favour us with your name if you please."

" My name, sir !" said their late guide, smiling. " Why,
that is a matter of no consequence. You will know me
when and wherever you may see me again, I dare say, and
that is enough." Saying this, he shook hands with each of
the party — with Ellen this ceremony was accompanied by
a look and pressure of peculiar intelligence — and bounded
away with the same light and elastic step with which he
had approached them on the preceding night, and was soon
lost to view.

It would not be easy for us to say precisely what were
the opinions entertained by Ellen's party, of the warm-
hearted but mysterious person who had just left them.
These were various, vague, and indefinite. That he was a
person far above the ordinary classes of the country, was
evident from his dress, his manner, and his accomplishments.
The first was that of a gentleman, the latter were those of
a man of education arid talent. These obvious proofs of his
rank there was no gainsaying ; nor would they admit of any
difference of opinion. But it had not escaped those who
were now engaged in discussing the subject of the stranger's
probable history, that, during the whole time they had been
together, neither his name, profession, nor place of residence,
had ever transpired. They had not been at any time allud-
ed to, even in the slightest or most distant manner. It was
only now, however, that the oddness of this circumstance
seemed to strike the members of the party with the full
force of its peculiar character. Each now asked the other
in surprise, if they had not ascertained any of the particulars
just mentioned from the stranger ; and all declared that they
had not. More extraordinary still, as it now appeared on
reflection, his name had never once been mentioned by the
person in whose house they had passed the previous even-
ing. In this investigation, the circumstance of the stranger's
having declined to give his name at parting, was not of
course forgotten. The affair altogether was a singular one —
a conclusion at which all arrived ; but it was one also,
•which their discussion could throw no light on ; and this
oeing sensibly felt by all, the subject was gradually dropped.

To what extent the doubts and indefinite suspicions with
which the mystery associated with their late guide had
inspired the various members of the party, were shared by
Ellen, we do not know ; but we suspect that, in her bosom,
they were mingled with feelings that had the effect of giving
them a totally different character from what they assumed
'•n the minds of her companions. In her case, these doubts
or suspicions were wholly unassociated with any idea
unfavourable to the character of him whose conduct excited
them. She saw, indeed, that theie was a degree of concealment
on the part of that person ; \>ut she never, for a moment,
dreamt that it proceeded from any reasons involving any-
thing disgraceful. In the fondness of her love, she con-
ceived it impossible that a being of so kind and generous
a heart, of so prepossessing appearance and manners, and
of so noble a form, could ever have been guilty of any-
thing which should subject him to the debasing feelings of
either shame or fear. She felt there was mystery, but she
was satisfied it was not the mystery of crime ; and, under
this conviction, she continued to cherish the love which had
thus so suddenly sprung up in her own guiltless and guile-
less bosom. The party, in the meantime, were rapidly
approaching the place of their respective residences, and a
very short time after saw that consummation attained.

If we now allow somewhere about the space of a month
to elapse, and if we then look, in the dusk of a certain even-

ing, into a certain retired green lane or avenue, at the
distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from
the residence of Ellen Martin's father, in the vicinity of the
town of Banff, and which, being on the property of the
latter, was secluded from all intrusion, we shall then and
there find two persons walking together, in earnest and
secret conversation. If we approach them nearer, we shall
discover that they are lovers ; for there is the gentle accent
and the endearing concourse of fond hearts. They are
Ellen Martin and her mysterious lover ; and this is the
fifth or sixth night on which they have so met since they
parted at the time and in the manner before described.

" But why this mystery, James ?" — for this much of
his name had she obtained — Ellen might have been over-
heard, by an eavesdropper, saying to her lover on this
occasion, as she leant on his arm, and gazed fondly in
his face. " Why all this mystery ? — why is it that you come
and go only under the shade of night ? — and why is it that
you shun the face of man with such sedulous anxiety ? — and
why, above all, are you always so carefully armed? Oh,
do confide in me, James, and tell me all. Relieve my
mind. Tell me the reason of these things. You wrongr
me by this mystery ; for it implies a suspicion of my sin'
cerity — it implies that you think me unworthy of bein^
trusted."

" Doubt your sincerity, Ellen ! — think you unworthy of
being trusted !" said the person whom she addressed, em-
phatically but tenderly. " Sooner would I doubt the return
of yonder moon — sooner would I doubt that the sea would
flow again after it has ebbed — than doubt your sincerity,
love ; but I cannot, I will not, I dare not give you the in-
formation you ask ; for, with that information I would lose
you for ever ; and what, think you, would induce me to
inflict such misery as that on myself? Be content, Ellen,
in the meantime at least, with an assurance of my love —
yes, unworthy as I am," he exclaimed, with increased fer-
vour, " of a love as strong, as sincere, as pure as ever
existed in a human bosom."

" I never doubted it, James — I never doubted it," said
Ellen, bursting into tears, and leaning her head fondly on
the shoulder of her lover ; 'f and I will not press you further
for that information which you seem so reluctant to give.
I will, in the meantime, as you say, confide in your fidelity,
and leave the rest to some future and happier hour."

<: Happier hour, Ellen !" said her companion, with a
bitter smile. ' ' Alas ! there is no happier hour than this in
store for me. But it is happiness enough." And he chanted
in a low. but mellifluous voice —

" There's glory for the brave, Ellen,

And honour for the true ;
There's woman's love for both, Ellen —

Such love's I find in you.
" There's -wealth into the Indies, Ellen,

There's riches in the sea —
But I would not give for these, Ellen,

One little hour with thee.*'

" A poor bargain, James," said Ellen, smiling and blush-
ing at the same time. " You are a fair poet, but a very
indifferent chapman, if that be a specimen of your bargain
making."

" It may be so, Ellen," replied her companion, also smil-
ing ; " yet I am willing to abide by the terms."

At this instant, a rustling noise was heard amongst the
bushes close by where the lovers stood. The mysterious
stranger started, hurriedly freed his sword hilt from the
folds of his plaid, muttering, as he did so —

" Ha ! have they dogged me ? They shall rue it. By
heaven, they shall rue it ! — I shall not be taken cheaply !"
And he half unsheathed his weapon, as he stood listening
for a repetition of the sounds which had alarmed him ; but
they were not repeated ; and the uneasiness of the lovers
gradually subsiding, they resumed their conversation. At

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

109

the expiry of another " little hour," the lovers parted, and
parted to meet no more — a misfortune which they hut little
anticipated ; for a solemn promise was given hy both to
meet in the same place and at the same hour on that day
se'ennight.

As it may lead to the gratification of some curiosity on
the part of the reader regarding the mysterious lover of
Ellen Martin, we shall follow his footsteps after leaving her
in the manner just described. We may as well, first,
however, make the reader aware that these visits of the
person alluded to were by no means of very easy accom-
plishment. They cost him a journey, over mountain and
moor, of upwards of a score of miles ; but he was light of
foot, nimble as one of the deer of his native mountains,
and such a feat to him was not one which he deemed much
to boast of. If we follow him, then, as proposed, on the
uight in question, we shall find him performing such a
journey as we have alluded to, and finally arriving at a deep
but narrow glen, or ravine, far up amongst the hills, and ac-
cessible only at one extremity, and even here of such difficult
entrance that none but those intimately acquainted with it
could effect it. This knowledge, however, the person whom
we are now accompanying possessed. He ascended the
natural barrier by which the ravine was closed with a sure
but rapid step ; when, having gained its utmost height, and
ere he descended on the opposite side, he extricated a small
bone or ivory whistle from the folds of his plaid, and drew
from it a short, low, but piercing sound. Had he omitted
this precaution, his life would have been the forfeit ; for,
concealed amongst the copsewood, at a little height inside
of the glen lay a sentinel with loaded rifle, whose duty it
was instantly to fire on any one entering without such
intimation previously given of his being a friend. Having
sounded the whistle, the person of whom we were speaking,
without waiting for any response — for none was required —
plunged down into the ravine below, bounding from crag to
crag like a hunted chamois, and trusting for security on
each airy footing to a handful of the lichen which grew
from *he precipitous wall of rock down which he was
descending.

Having gained the bottom of the ravine, he pushed on
towards its centre, when he again ascended, and now made
for a clump of copsewood, which grew at a considerable
height on the side of the glen. This gained, he dashed
the branches aside, and, in the next instant, plunged into
a cavern whose dark mouth they concealed. Accompany-
ing him thus far also, we shall find the companion of
our travels reaching a large and lofty chamber, in the centre
of which burnt a huge fire of peats, built on a circular piece
of rude masonry, and around which are seated eight or ten
men. Here and there may be seen resting against the walls
jf the chamber the large steel basket-hilts of broadswords,
and, in different corneis, accumulations of plaids and
bonnets. Another object also will strike us. This is several
immense sides of beef, and several carcases of mutton, hung
up in various parts of the cave, all ready for the operations
of the cook. Neither the character of the place, nor of
those by whom it is occupied, can be mistaken. It is a den
of Highland katherans.

The reception by the latter of the person whom we have
just intruded upon them, was verymarkedly cold and distant;
and it was rendered more so by the contrast between his
manner to them on his entrance, and theirs to him. The
former was cheerful and conciliatory, the latter sullen and
repulsive.

" The eagle's eyry is not now in the cleft of the rock,"
said one. " It is in the barn-yard."

" Ay, the deer has left the mountain, and gone to herd
with the swine," said another.

" I understand you, friends," replied the intruder. "You
do not approve of these wanderings of mine. You think

I am taming down into some such animal as a Lowland
shopkeeper or Wanshaw weaver— and perhaps it is so,
in some measure; but I cannot help it. I acknowledge
that the whole energies of my nature — all the feelings
of my heart — have undergone a total change, both in
character and direction. I certainly am not the man I was,
I feel it, and therefore feel that I am no longer fit to be
your leaded.

" Macpherson," said one of the men, " you guess part of
pur feelings towards you just now, but not all. There is
in these feelings at least as much of fear for your safety
in these excursions of yours, as displeasure with your
neglect of us and our common interest. You know that
we love you, Macpherson, for yours is the generous and
open hand — yours is the hand that was never raised in anger
against the unoffending or the helpless, and never closed in
hard-heartedness against the needy."

" No, thank God," replied the person thus eulogized—
" much evil as I have done, the shedding of blood is no
part of it. Personal injury I have never yet done to any
man, nor to any man shall I ever do it, unless in self-
defence. Neither can the poor ever say they asked from
me in vain. But, my friends," went on the speaker, " this
is but a melancholy strain. Come, let us have something
of a livelier spirit, and let me see if I cannot introduce it."
Having said this, he went to a corner of the cavern, where
lay a large wooden chest. This he opened and drew out a
violin. It was a favourite instrument, and well could the
person who now held it, employ it. Seating himself on an
elevated bench of stone, which had been erected by the
inmates of the cavern against the wall, he commenced
playing some cheerful airs, and with such effect that he
very soon dissipated the angry feelings of his auditors, and
brought expressions of benevolence and good will into
these rugged countenances, that had been but a little before
lowering with gloom and discontent. The skilful minstrel,
perceiving the effect of his music — an effect, indeed, which
former experience had taught him to anticipate with perfect
certainty — now changed his strain, and launched into a
series of the most thrilling and pathetic airs, all of which
he played with exquisite taste and expression.

Had any one at this moment watched the fierce and
weather-beaten faces of those who were listening in breath-
less silence to the delightful tones of his violin, they might
have marked in the eye of more than one, an unbidden
tear, and on all an expression of deep sympathy with the
spirit of the music. At length the musician ceased ; but it
was some time before the spell which he had thrown over
his auditors was broken. For some seconds, there was
not a word or a movement amongst them — all continuing
to remain in the fixed and pensive attitude in which the
melancholy strains had bound them.

Having brought his performances to a close, the musician,
half in earnest and half playfully, hugged his violin, as if
exulting in its power, to his bosom, embraced it as if it had
been a living thing, and hurried with it to the chest from
which he had originally taken it, and there again carefully
deposited it. His reception on now returning to the party
whom he had just been entertaining with his music, was
very different from what it had been on his first entrance.
Their better and kindlier feelings had been touched by his
strains — a sympathetic chord in each bosom had been
struck ; and the effects were sufficiently visible in the
altered manner of those who were thus affected towards
him whose skill had produced the change. The transition
of the feelings of admiration was natural and easy from the
music to the musician ; and looks and words of kindnes«
and forgiveness now greeted the mountain Orpheus, who
took his place among the rest, to share in some refreshment
which had been, in the meantime, in preparation.

Leaving the katherans employed in discussing this re-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

past, which consisted simply of roasted kid, we -will procee
to divulge the whole of that secret regarding the chief pei
sonage of our tale, which we have hitherto so caref'ull
kept. This personage, then, was no other than the cele
brated freebooter, Macpherson. This man, as is we
known, was the illegitimate son of a gentlemen of famil
and propertyin Inverness-shire^ by a woman of the gipsy rac<
He was brought up at his father's house ; but, on the dcat
of the latter, was claimed and carried away by his mother
when, joining the wandering tribe to which she belongec
he acquired their habits, and finally became the characte
which we have represented him — namely, a leader of a ban
of katherans. He was a person of singular talents an
accomplishments, of uncommonly handsome form and fea
ture, of great strength, yet, though of a lawless profession
of kind and compassionate dispositions. Such was th
hero of our tale — such the lover of Ellen Martin, althoug!
little did that poor girl yet know how unhappily her affec
tions had been placed.

Having nothing whatever to do with the proceedings o
Macpherson and his band during the interval between th
parting of the former with Ellen and the period of the pro
posed meeting — these having but little interest in them
selves, and being in no way connected with our story — wi
will at once pass this space of time, and bring up our nar
rative to the day on which Macpherson was again to se
out for the trysting place. His motive and feelings in thii
matter he confided only to one friend out of all his com-
rades. This man, whose name was Eneas Chisholm
was the son of the person at whose house the readei
will recollect the party, of which Ellen was one, was BO
hospitably entertained on the night they had lost their way
on the mountains. It was he, also, who had eulogized the
generosity and clemency of Macpherson, as we a short
while since recorded. He was a young man, and, both in
manner and disposition, much like Macpherson himself.
He possessed all his warmth and sincerity of heart, kathe-
ran as he was j but was greatly his inferior in talents and
in personal appearance. Taking an opportunity when
none else were near, Macpherson informed this person
that he intended on that evening repeating his visit to
Banff.

" It is madness, Macpherson," said Eneas — " downright
madness. You surely do not calculate on the risk you
run, in these desperate adventures of yours, of falling into
the hands of the sheriff. You are well known, and it is
next to a miracle that you escape."

" No danger, Eneas, none at all, man," replied Macpher-
son, in the confidence of his own prowess, and not a little,
perhaps, in that of his agility. " I have done more daring
things in my day on far less inducement ; and," he added,
proudly, " give me fair play, Eneas, my sword in my hand,
and not any six men in Banff will take James Macpherson
alive."

" But they may take him dead, though, Macpherson/'
said Eneas, " and you can hardly call that escaping, I
think."

" Cheer up, cheer up my bonny, bonny May 1

Oh, why that look of sorrow ?
He's wise that enjoys the passing hour —

He's a fool that thinks of the morrow !"

exclaimed Macpherson, slapping his friend jocosely on the
shoulder. " Why, man, Ellen Martin I must see, and Ellen
Martin I will see, let the risk be what it may — ay, although
there were a halter dangling on every tree between this
and Banff, and every noose was gaping for me."

" Then, at least, allow three or four of us to accompany
you, Macpherson, in case of accidents," said Eneas.

" No, no ; not one, Eneas," replied Macpherson — <f no
life shall be periled in this cause but my own. If I am
unfortunate, J shall be so alone. I alone must pay the

penalty of my own rashness and imprudence. I would not
put a dog's life in jeopardy, let alone yours, in such a mat-
ter as this. But I'll tell you what," he added : " I'll exact
a promise from you, Kneas."

" What is that ?" said the latter.

" It is," replied Macpherson, " that, if I am taken, and
taken alive, you will do what you can to have my violin
conveyed to me to whatever place of confinement I may be
carried.

" It is an odd fancy," said Chisholm, smiling ; " but 1
promise you it shall be done since you desire it."

" I do," replied Macpherson. And here the conversa-
tion between him and his friend terminated ; and, shortly
after, the former, having carefully armed himself, set
out alone on his perilous journey. The sun, when he
left the glen, had already sank far down into the west,
while his slanting rays were yet beating with full fervoui
and intensity on those sides of the rocks and hills that
looked towards the setting luminary, their opposite fronts
were involved in a rapidly deepening shade, and the val-
leys were beginning to be darkened with a premature
twilight. But Macpherson had calculated his time and
distance accurately. Three hours of such walking as his
would bring him to the goal he aimed at, and then the
gloaming would have been on the verge of darkness. And
it was so, in each and all of these particulars. He arrived
at the trysting-place precisely at the time and in the cir-
cumstances he desired. On reaching the appointed spot,
Ellen was not yet there. Neither did he expect she
should ; but he felt assured that she would very soon appear.
Under this conviction, he seated himself on a small green
bank, closely surrounded with thick shrubbery or copse-
wood, and, thus situated, awaited her arrival.

Leaving Macpherson thus disposed of for a time, we
shall advert to a circumstance of which he was but little
aware, although it was one which deeply, fatally con-
cerned him. He had been seen and recognised. The per-
sons— for there were two — who made the discovery, dogged
the ill-starred freebooter to the place of his appointment
with Ellen, where, seeing him stop, one ot them hurried
away to communicate the important intelligence to the
sheriff, while the other remained to keep watch on the
motions of the unsuspecting outlaw. On the former's
being introduced to the presence of the dreaded officer just
named.

" What would you give, Mr Sheriff," he said, " to
know where Macpherson the freebooter is at this
moment ?"

" Why, not much, man," replied the Sheriff, " unless he
were so situated as to render it probable that I could take
him. I have known where he was myself a hundred times,
but dared not touch him."

" But I mean as you say — I mean in a situation where
be may be easily taken," rejoined the man. " I know
where he is at this instant, and all alone, too — not one
with him."

" You do !" exclaimed the Sheriff, Avith great animation ;
br the capture of Macpherson had been long one of the
most anxious wishes of his heart. " Where, where is he,
man ?" he added, impatiently.

" Let me have half-a-dozen well-armed men with me,'
eplied his informant " and for fifty mcrks I will make
nim your prisoner."

" Done J" said the Sheriff, exultingly — " fifty merks shaD.
>e yours, of well arid truly told money, the instant you put
Vlacpherson into my power ; and, instead of half a-dozer
men, you shall have a whole dozen, and I myself will ac-
company you. Is he far distant ?"
" Not exceeding a mile."

" So much the better — so much the better," said the
Sheriff, rubbing his hands with glee. " If AVC take him,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Ill

a worthier deed has not been done in Scotland this many
a day. It were worth a thousand merks a-year to the
shire of Banff alone."

In less than fifteen minutes after this conversation had
passed, a sudden bustle might have been seen about the old
town-house of Banff. This was occasioned by a number of
men, amongst whom was the Sheriff, hurriedly ransacking
the town armoury for such warlike weapons as it contained,
each choosing and arming himself with the best he could
find. This choice, however, was neither very extensive
nor varied; the stock, chiefly consisting of some rusty Loch-
aber axes, and afew equally rusty halberds and broadswords,
kept for the array of the civic guard on great occasions —
sometimes of love and sometimes of war.

The party having all now armed themselves, were drawn
up in front of the town-house, when the Sheriff, placing
himself at their head, gave the word to march ; and the
whole moved off under the guidance of the person whose
intelligence had been the cause of their turning out. After
they had proceeded about a mile, the latter called a halt of
the party, and taking the Sheriff two or three paces in ad-
vance, pointed out to him the spot in which he had left
Macpherson, and where, as they were informed by the
man who had remained to watch his motions, and who at
this moment came up to them, he still was.

A consultation was now held as to the best mode of pro-
ceeding to the capture of the dreaded outlaw — a feat by no
means considered either a safe or an easy one by those by
whom it was now .contemplated ; for all were aware of his
prowess, and of the desperate courage for which he was
distinguished.

Macpherson, in the meantime, wholly unconscious of his
danger, was still quietly seated on the small green bank
where we left him. Ellen had not yet appeared, and he
was listlessly employed in drawing figures on the ground
with the point of his scabbard, when he was suddenly
startled 'by a similar noise amongst the bushes with that
which had alarmed him on a former occasion. He sprung
to his feet, drew a pistol from his belt with his left hand,
and his sword from its sheath with his right, and, thus pre-
pared, awaited the result of the motion, which he now saw
as well as heard. The rustling increased, the foliage rapidly
opened in a line approaching him, and, in an instant after-
wards, his friend, Eneas Chisholm, stood before the astonished
freebooter. . .

" Eneas !" he exclaimed, under breath, but in a tone of
great surprise.

" Hush, hush !" said Eneas, seizing his friend by the
arm — •' not a word. In five minutes, you will be sur-
rounded. You have been recognised and dogged. There
are a dozen of the Sheriff's men within five hundred yards
of you, planning your capture. Let us be off — off instantly,
Macpherson," he continued, urging the latter onwards. " If
we can gain the town, we may escape. I know a place of
concealment there."

" Nay, but Ellen — Ellen, Eneas 1" said Macpherson,
hanging backwards, and resisting the efforts of his friend to
drag him away.

" Fool, fool, man !" said Eneas, passionately, and still
urging him forcibly along. " An instant's delay, ^ and
both you and I are in the hands of our deadliest enemies."
We can fight, Eneas."

" Ten times a fool !" exclaimed the latter, with increasing
anger. " Fight a dozen men, all as well armed as our-
selves ! — and observe, besides," he added, " your obstinacy
will sacrifice me as well as yourself."

« Ay, there you have me," replied Macpherson. " That
shall not be — God forbid !" And he hurried along with
his friend.

At this instant, a shrill whistle was heard from the
lopsewood.

" They are on us," exclaimed Eneas, as, with one bound,
he cleared a five feet wall that intervened between them
and the highway that led to the town of BaniF.

He was instantly followed by Macpherson, who, having
thrown his sword over before him, cleared the impediment
with yet greater ease. Having gained the road, the two
outlaws hurried towards the town. No pursuer had yet
appeared ; and it seemed as if they had already effected
their escape. In this fancied security, the fugitives
slackened their pace, that they might not incur the risk
which would attach to a suspicious haste. During all
this time, not a word more than we have recorded had
passed between them. They had pursued their way in
silence, and were thus just entering the town, when Mac-
pherson suddenly felt himself seized by both arms from
behind. Their route had been marked, and they were
intercepted.

Macpherson, exerting his great personal strength, Avith
one powerful effort freed himself from the grasp of his
assailants — for there were two — flinging both, at the same
instant, to the ground, by a sudden and violent extension of
his arms. Having thus set himself at liberty, he hastily
drew his sword, and stood upon the defensive. His friend,
Eneas, also drew, when they found themselves opposed
to at least a dozen — the two who had sprung on Macpher-
son, being now joined by their comrades. Undaunted by
the number of their enemies, and aware of what would be
their fate if taken, the intrepid outlaws determined on a
desperate resistance. Macpherson, with his other accom-
plishments, was an admirable swordsman, and he felt that
he had not much to fear from the unskilled rabble to whom
he was opposed, so long as he could keep them from closing
with him — and in this conviction he coolly awaited their
onset. It was some minutes before this took place ; for
their opponents, awed by their fierce and determined bear-
ing, hung back. At length, however, they seemed to be
gathering courage by degrees, as they came gradually mov-
ing on, till they were within two or three paces of Macpher-
son and his comrade, when two of the boldest of them made
a sudden rush on the former, with the view of rendering
his weapon useless, by closing on him ; but the attempt was
fatal to the assailants. With a fierce shout of defiance and
determination, Macpherson struck down the foremost, with
a blow that split his head to the chin, while his comrade
despatched the other by running him through the body.
Both the outlaws, on striking, leapt back a pace or two, so
as to maintain the necessary distance between them and
their enemies, who were still pressing on. But, panic-
stricken by this, the first results of the encounter, they now
paused, and entered into a hasty consultation, which ended
in the resolution of their attacking simultaneously, and in
a body, and thus, by mere force, bearing down their oppo-
nents. Acting on this resolution, the whole rushed forward,
with loud shouts, when a desperate conflict took place.
For a long time, both Macpherson and his friend not only
warded off the numerous cuts and thrusts that were made
at them, but brought down several of their assailants, one
after the other ; and the issue of the contest seemed very
doubtful, great as the odds were against them.

In the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting
desperately, was compelled to yield ground, to avoid being
closed upon and surrounded ; for the pressure of the crowd
was now greatly increased by an accession of town's people,
who, having heard the din of the conflict, hastened to the scene
to witness it, and to assist in the capture of the freebooters.
Finding himself in the danger of being assailed from behind,
he rushed to one side of the street, and, placing his back to
the wall of a house, flourished his sword, and defied the
whole host of enemies who pressed upon him ; and out of
that whole host there was not one who would come within
reach of the courageous outlaw thus desperately at bay.

112

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

For fully a quarter of an hour, he kept a circle of several
yards clear around him, and having in this interval gained
breath, it seemed extremely doubtful that he should be cap-
tured at all ; for it was possible that, by a desperate effort,
he might cut his way through his assailants and effect his
escape. In truth, seeing the timidity of his enemies from
the circumstance of none of them daring to approach him,
some such proceeding he now actually contemplated. But
a counter measure was at this moment in operation, which
prevented its execution, and placed the outlaw in the hands
of his enemies.

A person from the crowd entered the house, against the
wall of which Macpherson was standing, by a back door, and
proceeded to an apartment one of whose windows was imme-
diately above and within a few feet of him. Opening this
window cautiously, this person having previously provided
himself with a large heavy Scotch blanket, threw it, as
broadly extended as possible, over the outlaw, thus blinding
him and disabling him from using his weapon. The crowd
beneath — marking the proceeding, which Macpherson, from
his position, could not — watching the moment when the
blanket descended, rushed in upon him, threw him to the
ground, disarmed, and secured him ; his friend Eneas,
who had been early separated from him in the melee, and
who had not attracted, during any period of the conflict, so
much of the attention of their common enemies, having con-
trived, previous to this, to effect his escape.

On being captured, he was bound, conveyed to prison, and
a strong guard placed over him. On the following day, an
elderly woman, dressed in the antique garb of her country —
the Highlands — was seen walking up and down in front of
the jail in which Macpherson was confined, and ever and
anon casting a look of anxious inquiry towards the build-
ing. A nearer view of this person discovered that her eyes
were red with weeping ; but all her tears had been already
shed, and the first excess of grief had passed away ; for
both her look and manner, though still expressive of deep
sorrow, were grave, staid, and composed — nay, evtn stern.
Occasionally, however, she might be seen, as she stood
gazing on the prison-house of the unfortunate outlaw, rock-
ing to and fro with that slow and silent motion so expres-
sive of the intensity of mental suffering. Occasionally,
too, a low murmuring of heart-rending anguish might be
heard issuing from her thin parched lips. But she held
communion with no one, and seemed heedless of the
passers by. At length she crossed the street, and having
knocked at the massive and well-studded outer-door of the
prison, inquired if she might see the principal jailor. He
was brought to her. On his appearing —

" The deer of the mountain," said his strange visiter,
" is in the toils of the hunter. Oh ! black and dismal
'lay that that proud and gallant spirit that was wont to
roam so wild and so free should be cooped up within the
four stone walls of a loathsome dungeon — that those swift
and manly limbs should be fettered with iron — and that the
sword should be denied to that strong arm which was once
so ready to defend the defenceless !"

" What mean ye, honest woman ?" said the jailor, who
was a good deal puzzled to discover a meaning in this
address.

" What mean I ?" exclaimed his visiter, sternly. '•' Do
not I mean that the brave is the captive of the coward —
that the strong has fallen before the weak — that the daring
and fearless has been circumvented by the timid and the
cunning ? Do not I mean this ? — and is it not true ? Is
not James Macpherson a prisoner within these walls, and
are not you his keeper ?"

" It is so," replied the astonished functionary.

" I know it," said his visiter. " Then will you convey
this to him ?" she said, bringing out a violin from beneath
her plaid.

The jailor looked in amazement, first at the woman, and
then at the instrument.

" What !" he at iength. said, " take a fiddle to a man
who's going to be hanged ! That is ridiculous."

" It is his wish," said the former, briefly. " The wish
of a dying man. Will you convey it to him ?"

" Oh, if it be his wish, he shall surely have it," said the
jailor ; " but it is the oddest wish I ever heard."

" You will convey it to him, then ?" replied the stranger,
with the same sententious brevity as before.

" I will," was the rejoinder.

The woman curtsied and withdrew in the same cold,
stern, and formal manner she had maintained throughout
the interview. On her departure, the jailor proceeded to
Macpherson's dungeon with the extraordinary commission
with which he had been charged. The latter, on seeing
the well-known instrument, snatched it eagerly and de-
lightedly from its bearer, exclaiming — "Welcome, welcome1
thou dear companion of better days ! thou solacer of many 3
heavy care ! thou delight of many a happy hour ! Faithful
Eneas !" And, with the wild, strange, and romantic reck-
lessness of his nature, he immediately began to play in the
sweetest tones imaginable — tones which seemed to have
acquired additional pathos from the circumstances of the
performer — some of the melancholy airs of his native land ;
and from that hour till the hour of the minstrel's doom,
these strains were almost constantly heard pouring through
the small grated window of his dungeon. But they were
soon to cease for ever. Macpherson was, in a few days
afterwards, brought to trial and condemned to be hanged at
the cross of Banff.

On the day on which he suffered the last penalty of the
law, he requested the jailor to send some one with his
violin to him to the place of execution. The request was
complied with. The instrument was put into his hands as
he stood at the foot of the gallows, when he played over
the melancholy air known by the name of " Macpherson's
Lament." It had been composed by himself while in
prison. On concluding the pathetic strain, he grasped his
violin by the neck, dashed it to pieces against the gallows,
and flung the fragments into the grave prepared for him-
self at the foot of the gibbet. In a few minutes after, that
grave was occupied by all that remained of Macpherson the
Freebooter.

We have now, we conceive, to gratify the reader's
curiosity on one point only — and this is accomplished by
adverting to Ellen Martin. The unhappy girl ultimately
ascertained, though not till long after his execution, who
her mysterious lover was ; but neither the history of hei
attachment to him, nor her intimacy with him, was
ever known to any one besides his friend Eneas ; for to
none other had he ever named her. Nor, during his
confinement, or at any period after his capture, had he
ever made the slightest allusion to her. This, indeed, from
motives of delicacy towards her, he had studiously and
carefully avoided.

On Ellen, the effect of a grief — for the discovery of her
lover's real character had not been able to efface the im-
pressions which his handsome person and gentle manners
had made upon her young heart — the effect, we say, of a
grief which she durst not avow, was that of inspiring a
settled melancholy, and determining her on a life of celi-
bacy. In the grave of Macpherson was buried the objecl
of her first love, and she never knew another.

WILSON'S

wf, STratritonarg, anlr 3£mas<natt&e

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT.

WK see so many examples of the extraordinary discovery of
evil designs attempted to be concealed by all the craft of
cunning man, that it is impossible to doubt, even with the
many cases before us of the apparent success of criminal
schemes, that it is a part of God's providence to lay open
the secret actings — nay, often the secret thoughts — of those
Avho contravene his laws. The modes by which this pur-
pose is fulfilled, are as various as the designs themselves ;
and though some of them may not appear to be consistent
with the seriousness and gravity of an avenging and punish-
ing retribution, we are not, on that account, to doubt their
authority or undervalue their effect. In elucidation of this
statement, we have a case to record of an extraordinary and
ludicrous discovery of roguery, which, as well on account
of its truth as the moral which, amidst all its grotesque -
ness of humour, it inculcates, we cannot withhold from the
public. An incorrect and unauthenticated version of the
story may probably have found its way to the public ear ;
but this, in place of forming any reason against our publish-
ing it, renders our exposition of the real truth itself the
more necessary and the more acceptable.

In that manufacturing town which has lately risen to
considerable eminence, called Dunfermline, there lived,
some time ago, a person of the name of Duncan Schulebred,
by trade a weaver — or, as he chose rather to be called, a
manufacturer, a term which the inhabitants love to apply
to every man who can boast the property of a loom and its
restless appendage. We believe the people of that town to
be as honest and industrious as those of any mercantile
place in the kingdom ; but they have too much good sense
to think of claiming for their entire community, a total
exemption from the inroads of dishonesty and deceit — vices
which prevail in every corner of this land. Unhappily, the
individual we have mentioned, had allowed himself to
become a slave to those evil propensities which are con-
cerned in the collecting together of ill-gotten wealth, and
never left any feasible plan unattempted, which might
present any chance of gratifying the ruling passion by
which he was mastered. He was a little man, with a florid
complexion, and the small twinkling eye which almost
invariably accompanies cunning. His walk was that of a
man accustomed to carry under his left arm a web of huck-
aback, and in his right a staff ellwand ; and his style of
speech, conciliating and persuasive, was derived from the
habit of wheedling customers into exorbitant terms. He
was a great coward, as well physical as moral — the conse-
quence, doubtless, of being a dishonest trader. Too con-
temptible to be hated, perhaps his greatest enemy was his
own conscience, of which he stood in such terrible awe,
that his wife was often obliged, during the dark hours of
the reign of that mysterious power, to rise and light a lamp
for the purpose of exorcising the spirit which, seated on
his heart, tormented him with the gnawing inflictions of
its pain.

This power of his conscience had hitherto, however, been
unable to prevent him from using his short ellwand, and
acting dishonestly. The moment he got into daylight and
119. VOL. III.

active life, he, like all other cowards, despised the enemy
from which he thought himself at the time safe. In a
strong-minded man, conscience produces resolution; in a
weak, it gives rise merely to fears and vacillation. It is
not often that greedy, cunning men are given to intoxica-
tion; yet we are obliged to add this vice to the chaiacter
of Duncan Schulebred, who (exhibiting, however, the one
vice in the other) never failed to get intoxicated, if he could
effect his purpose at the cost of his neighbour — a result he
often achieved, by leaving the tavern (after he had got
enough) on pretence of returning in a few minutes to the
company of his unsuspecting victim.

Like many others of the peripatetic manufacturers of
Dunfermline, this individual sold through the country the
cloth he fabricated at home ; so that, for one half (the
winter) of the year, he sat, and for the other (the summer)
he travelled. By the same means and ratio, he was one
halt of the year sober and the other drunk ; for he could
fleece no pot companion in his native town, where he was
known ; while, throughout the country, he could walk deli-
berately out of every ale-house on the road, and leave his
travelling companions to pay for his drink, in exchange for
that society which they had enjoyed.

In the course of his journey, this individual had oc-
casion, during the latter end of a summer, to be in
Edinburgh, where he usually sold a considerable part of
his stock. During the day, he had been in treaty with a
person of the name of Andrew Gavin, a pettifogging
writer, residing near the Luckenbooths, for the sale of a
web of linen, which the latter (like a trout with a bait on a
clear day) approached and examined, and looked at and
felt, and yet still seemed irresolute in his determination to
be caught. The weaver's twinkling eye saw and admired
the gudgeon ; the linen (to a safe extent) was unrolled, its
texture felt with a " miller's thumb," its qualities extolled,
and its price wondered at by him who fixed it and smiled
inwardly at his profit and the trick by which he realized
it. The unwary purchaser, though a man of the law, was
at last caught — the bargain was struck, the money paid ; and
all that remained was that the seller (in addition to cheating
him in the manner to be explained) should, after his usual
practice, get drunk at the expense of his customer.

The two parties accordingly repaired to a tavern known
by the name of The Barleycorn, where they sat down
deliberately, to indulge in a deep potation — the one (the
customer) luxuriating in the idea of getting " glorious" at
the cost of the seller, who had generously, and in consider-
ation of his custom, agreed to pay all ; while the latter
secretly chuckled at the idea of leaving the writer (who
was known to the tavern keeper) to liquidate the debt
incurred by his liquidation. Both the companions were
thus happy, though from very different causes ; and their
happiness only impelled them to further gratifications, with
the view of augmenting it — such is the danger that attends
an elevation of the spirits ; and such is the insatiable thirst
for happiness in man, that, after the physical thirst is slaked,
the moral appetite must be ended by a surfeit.

In the midst of the orgies of these two worthies, the
customer, who had a humour of his own, took many _" rises
out of his companion, who submitted to his fun, in con-

114

TA.LES OF THE BORDERS.

sideration of his determination to leave him to pay " the
score," which would put "the laugh on the other side."

" There's a great diflerer.ee between our townsmen o'
Edinburgh, and yours o' Dumfarlan," said the writer.

" Very great," replied Duncan ; " but I winua say on
•what side the advantage lies. We're at least a' honest men
on oor side o' the water."

" Ye're mair than honest," replied Andrew, touched by
the insinuation — " ye're prudent. Your maxim, I under-
stand, is, ' Flee laigh and ye'll no fa' far' — a sayin weel
exemplified in the canny, quiet way your weavers mak
what they ca' their fortunes, and then look aboot them for
what they denominate, in their conceit, an estate. Every-
thing's dune in your toun by batter. Ye batter yer
claith, ye batter yersels, (wi' oor national dish, three times
a-day.) and the " batteries," pendcnte lite, that come to our
court prove how ye batter the lieges."

" Ye canna say I hae either battered or buttered you, at
least," said Duncan.

" The washin will try that," replied Andrew ; " but dinna
put me oot o' the thread o' my discourse. By twenty years
shuttlin and shufflin,* ye contrive to scrape thegither what
in your phrase maks a fortune — say maybe twa thoosand —
and, curious aneugh, there are scattered round your toun
sae mony cocklairdships, (mair than ye'll find again in a'
Scotland,) and yer ambition and the state o' the country
in this way sae weel agree, that every independent weaver
(manufacturer, I mean) is just as sure to become a laird as
he is sure, in the coorse o' time, to dee."

" The lawin will mak amends for this," muttered
Duncan to himself. " And when did you ever hear o' an
Edinburgh merchant buyin an estate ? A' their property
consists o' a front door, and a brass plate, which their ser-
vants keep scrubbin at every day, till it shines like that
they hae sae little o' within — gowd. They may sometimes
buy an estate and borrow the price ; but, if they do, the
' W.S.' whase plate is on the next door, will sune hae a
hornin on the bond."

" It will at least be an estate," responded the Edinburgher,
"an* no a mailin, fit only to yield room aneugh for its
master's grave. Then ye're no content wi' the denomina-
tion o' sic a man o' sic a place — as, for instance, when ye buy
your estate, ye wirma be content wi' Duncan Schulebred
o' Wabha', or Mr Schulebred o' Wabha', or even Duncan
Schuiebred, Esquire, o' Wabha', but, like the Lords, wha
carry the name o' their estates, you would be ' Wabha'
itsel', simply and withoot appendage. Ha ! ha ! « Wabha' !'
yet, it is just as guid as Foxha', or Shuttleha', or Shuttle-
crief, or Craigdookie, or Cockairnie, or Buchlyvie, or Pit-
bauchlie, or ony ither o' the cocklairdships that stand on
the Fife horizon, waitin for the stoppin o' the Dumfarlan
shuttle, the sign o' a made fortune, and o' the determination
o' the manufacturer to change his name for the proud
designation o' his estate. Ha 1 ha ! is it no excellent
Duncan, to think o' twa weavers that used to sit side by
side, drivin their shuttles on the Pittencrief road, meetin
ten years after, and usin the salutation — ' Hoo do you
do, Pitbauchlie ?' — * Very well, I thank ye, Craigdookie
We never think o' ca'in a man Niddry, or Dreghorn, or
Trinity, or the like. The modesty o' the folk on this side
o' the water forbids a' thae absurd fashions."

" An affront, or an insult," muttered Duncan, " is easily
washed doun, if ye use the insolent varlet's ain liquor in
the operation. Now, sir," said he, out, " since ye hae abuse<
oor guid toun, will ye tell me this — Whether is the drivin o
your lawyers' pens or oor weavers' shuttles, maist for the
guid o' this auncient land ? The ane maks a ravelled wab

* We are not answerable for the statements of the interlocutors in our
tales ; but we may here state that the tradesmen of Dunfennline are as
honest and industrious a set of individuals as are to be found in the king-
dom. But, after all, we think Edinburgh comes off second beet. — ED.

to catch unwary clients, and the ither maks guid linen foi
he backs o' the honest men and bonny lasses o' Scotland,
as weel as for the fat sides o' the beef-fed yeomen and braw
queans o' England. Edinburgh robs Scotland, Dumfar-
an robes it — a pun I canna resist, notwithstandin o' my
dislike o' that low sort o' humour. We are the linen,
rou (that is, you writers) are the little blood-sucking varleta
hat live on't, and suck the bluid o' the wearers."

" There's but little bluid comes out o' batter," replied the
angry writer, who noticed triumph in Duncan's twinkling
eye. '' We writers would starve, if we had nae ither bluid
to suck but that o' the white-faced liver-lipped propellers o'
the shuttle. A fat law plea, we say, never comes owre the
water. Ye're owre far north, and far beyond the reach o'
the lang arm o' justice. If ye ever fill her scales ava, it is
wi' the rump or fag-end o' a, ten years' multiplepoindin,
whar there are sae mony claimants, riders, and competitors,
that ye fa' oot and fecht amang yersels, and then come to
us to mend yer broken heads; but the bluid is a' oot o'
them before they are trusted in oor chancery."

This wordy war only made the writer and the weaver
more thirsty ; every argument was followed by a draught,
which slaked at once both thirst and revenge — each thinking
that he was drinking at the expense of the other. The
more they drank the warmer they grew in defence of their
respective towns, till they came to that condition of topers,
when, by the mere operation of their potations, they became
unable even to dispute. All confirmed drunkards have in
their drunkenness some ruling principle, which, however
far gone they may be, regulates their wayward movements.
The writer's habit was to sit when he thought he could not
stand — a principle which many sober men might do well to
adopt. The weaver's, again, was to nalk when he wished not to
stand the reckoning — a prudent maxim which never left him,
even when all other ideas had been washed from his brain.
It was now about one o'clock in the morning, and they had
drank so much that neither of them could tell (for neither
had any interest in a matter which did not seem to concern
his pocket) how much would require to be paid ; it was
enough for Duncan, that he knew that something (and not
little) must be paid — and now was the time for escape.

" We were speakin o' the law," said he, Avinking with
cunning and hiccuping with drink — " I fancy they never
refuse siller at the bar here, (hiccup,) ony mair than they
do in Dumfarlan. There is only this difference atween the
twa — that the folk wha resort to your bar pay when they
enter, we (hiccup) pay as we gae oot. Rest yersel there
till I cast up the bill, and if I hae ony plea wi' the landlord,
ye can come and plead it."

"That's kind, Duncan," said the writer — f' it will be
the only plea I ever had frae a Dumfarlan weaver. If I
gain it, we maun hae a — anither gill."

" Twa o' them," replied Duncan, trying to rise. " We
maun, at ony rate, hae (hiccup) the stirrup-cup, ye ken"— •
laughing and twinkling his reeling eyes.

" Ou ay," replied the writer ; " but I — I fancy I maun
pay for that, seein ye are the traveller, and — and are
besides to pay a' this tremendous bill, that lies, dootless, on
the bar like a — a lawyer's memorial."

" Ye're an example o' an honest, ay, a generous writer,"
said Duncan — " wha could hae thocht ye wad hae offered
to pay the stirrup-cup? I'll send yer wife a piece o
dornock for that, as weel as a screed .o' huckaback and
harn, to keep up a gratefu' recollection o' me after I'm
awa. I'll no be a minute at the bar ; for it's a place (hiccup)
I dinna like."

" Hae," cried the writer, riping his pocket — " tak wi' y e
and pay at the same time the price o' *i-« stirrup -gill — ae
settlin will ser' a'. "

" Ye're richt, Mr Gavin," replied Duncan, receiving the
money j "but that's a sma sum (hiccup) in comparison o'

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

115

what I hae to pay ; but it's pleasant to discharge the ohli-
gations o' honour."

The wily huckaback manufacturer was, as he spoke,
approaching the corner where his staff ellwand lay — an
article he stood more in need of at that time (short measure
as it was) than ever, on any other occasion of taking
off, he had encountered. The recourse to it for the
purpose of merely going to the bar, could not fail to raise
suspicions in the mind of the writer ; but then, again, was
he to lose a short measure, which, getting into the hands of
a writer, might be sent — in revenge of the trick he had
already played him, in selling a web of linen damaged in
the heart, and that he was about to play — to the public
authorities, who Avould hunt him to Dunfcrmline, and ruin
him by the exposure ? He besides required it for his
support ; for he could scarcely stand. In this dilemma, he
had again recourse to his wits.

" I'm no sure aboot thae folk ben the hoose," he said,
holding up the ellwand. " They may try to cheat me, seein
I'm a simple cratur, besides being twa sheets i' the wind —
(hiccup) — dinna ye think that I should tak my stick i' my
hand, as a kind o' lawburrows and protection ? No to say
I would think o' usin't, but simply to keep the publican in
awe, and within just and lawfu measure.

" Tak it wi' ye, tak it wi' ye, man," said the writer.
" Say it's a — a Dumfarlan baton, the sign o' yer constable-
ship, and ye'll find the bill twa inch shorter."

" Ingenious cratur !" ejaculated Duncan, with a hiccup,
and a drunken leer of his grey eyes. " A law plea never can
fail, surely, in the hands o' a man wi' sic a power o' sug-
gestion as ye hae. But ye forget that Dumfarlan batons
are no sae lang as Dumfarlan ell wands — (hiccup) — the power
o' authority there's short, but the reach o' oor honesty's
prodigious. That's a guid sign : oor batons are short
because we're quiet and civil, and our ellwands are lang
because we're honest. Wad ye believe it, noo, that that
ellwand o' mine, in spite o' the wear and tear o' walkin wi't,
is a hail inch different frae yer Edinburgh yards ?"

This fresh attack against the honesty of Edinburgh
roused the blood of the writer, and another wordy battle
was like to commence ; but Duncan saw at once, that, if he
put off more time, the people of the house might, from the
lateness of the hour, come and insist upon the reckoning
on the spot — a measure which all his wits would not enable
him to counteract. The open mouth of the writer was
therefore shut, by a few conciliatory words from the aggres-
sor:—

" I didna say, Mr Gavin," added Duncan, " whether the
inch belanged to Dumfarlan or Edinburgh. Ye may tak
the benefit o' a presumption in yer ain favour, till I come
back. Mony ane o' yer tribe stick langer by a presump-
tion than that, and, till it grows into a fact, it canna injure
an honest man like me. Guid" — (he was going to add
" night," and leered grotesquely at his own imprudence)
< — " guid — (hiccup) — guid luck to my speedy settlement o'
the lawin !"

He noAv staggered to the door, which he opened so gently
that the writer might, if he had not been drunk, have sus-
pected him of foul play. His foot was scarcely heard on
the passage ; but a sound, as if from the foot of the stairs,
indicated that some one had missed a step. No notice of
it was taken by the writer, Avho sat Avith his eye fixed on
the candle, concocting, like a good poet, one of those works
of imagination called a preliminary or dilatory defence.
Formerly, these Avorks of fancy Avere very rife among
lawyers, and, before the judicature act, they used to reach
a second or even a third edition, under the form of "amended
defences," « re-amended defences," and so forth They are
not now so much in favour, though the ancy Avhich pro-
duces them is still as vivid as ever. How long AndreAv
Gavin sat dreamW over his intended work we cwuuot say;

but never Avas poet more rudely, importunately, and unpleas-
antly roused from his dream, by the hand of a messenger
at arms, than was the unsuspecting victim of Duncan's
treachery as he Avas called upon by the landlord to
pay the bill. He had no money upon him — the small
sum he had given to the Aveaver to pay the last or stirrup
gill, and which the varlet had carried aAvay Avith him,
having been all his remaining cash, after paying the price
of ^the linen. He requested the importunate landlord to
Avait a little, to ascertain if Duncan Avould return ; but the
man Avished to get to bed, and AndreAv's credit being some-
Avhat worn, like that of many others of his overdone pro-
fession, the publican insisted upon him leaving his Avatch,
as a pledge for the payment of the money. The writer's
pride (a quality never aAvanting in the race, especially
Avhen they're in liquor) Avas roused ; he refused to impig-
norate, as he called it, his Avatch, and swore that he Avould
rather remain in durance all night, than succumb to the
unreasonable demand of the publican. The man Avas as
resolute as he, and, Avithout saying a word, turned the key
in the lock, and left the Avriter to dream over his legal
Avorks of fancy ki the dark.

MeanAvhile, the Avily Duncan Schulebred, having re-
covered from a fall on the last step of the stair — produced
by that impatience of slight obstacles which seizes an
ambidexter at the successful termination of a Avell concerted
and better executed scheme — proceeded doAvn the Canon
gate. He Avas out and out intoxicated ; but the Avish to cheat,
so long as it Avas in operation, kept his mind from that
confusion which, his purpose being effected, immediately
seized him. He Avas not certain of the direction in AA'hich
he Avas moving, but he Avas satisfied Avith the idea that he
AAras going from the sign of The Barleycorn, and any de-
stination Avas better than that. A confused intention of
sleeping all night in the toAvn of Leith, Avith the view of
catching the Fife boat in the morning, at last Avrought its
way through the cloud which overhung his mind ; and having
found himself as far as the Water-gate, he continued his
progress until he came to Avhat is called the Easter Road
leading directly down to the Links. The air produced its
usual effect upon a man Avho AAras filled to the throat Avith
liquor; and every step he took he found himself getting
more and more unsteady, and more and more unfit for
prosecuting his journey. He Avas, hoAvever, still conscious of
his condition, and felt great alarm lest some one should
assail him, and take from him his money. By and by, even
his consciousness left him, and he rolled from side to side,
engrossing, for his OAvn particular ambulation, the AA-hole
breadth of the road. Several times he came doAvn,and, being
unable to rise Avithout many repeated attempts, lay on the
ground for considerable periods. The necessity of motion of
some kind is the last idea parted with by an intoxicated
traveller ; and Duncan still retained it, even after he had lost
his ellwand, his chief means of support. On he struggled,
falling, and lying, and rising, and to it again, till he got at
length as far as the green called the Links of Leith— an
open space ahvays as disadvantageous to the drunk man as
it is pleasant to the seaman. A road Avith two sides may be
got over — the dikes keep him on; but an extended area of
grass Avith radiating openings all round, is a kind of place
Avhich a man in Duncan Schulebred's position, Avithout the
rudder or compass of consciousness, must always view with
great uneasiness. Accordingly, he beat about in this large
circle for several hours, and at last entered a street Avhich
leads doAvn to that called Salamander Street,from the circum-
stance of its being inhabited by those fire-eaters, the glass-
blowers of the Leith glassworks, into which latter ^street
he also got, reduced to the last extremity of feeble inebriation.
Having reached the south side of Salamander Street, he
ept close by the Avails and houses, stepping along, unwill-
ing to trust himself again to open space, lie knew nothing

116

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

of whither he was progressing, he had lost all recollection
of what he had been engaged in, was unconscious of what
he was doing, and utterly ignorant of all localities. As he
moved past the houses, he came to an opening, and, stag-
gering to a side, he entered the small avenue into which it
led, and proceeded along it, still holding by the wall, until
he got into one of the large houses or cones of the glass
works. There he lay down along-side of the furnace, and
behind a large trough used by the artificers in their work —
a situation which, yielding him considerable heat, was so
secluded that he might, for a time, escape even the observ-
ation of the artificers in the morning, when they resumed
their work. He fell in an instant into a sleep, disturbed by
those frightful dreams that haunt the pillow of the dissolute
and the wicked.

In the morning, the workmen came to commence the
labours of the day. They began their work with a spirit
called forth by high wages, produced by an increased
demand at that time for glass. Throughout the large cone
they lighted their lamps, and proceeded to the various
preliminary processes, towards the manufacture of their
brittle commodity. The large furnace was lighted, and
blown up to a red heat, for the purpose of preparing what
is called the Jritl, being the substance out of which the
glass is subsequently formed. Large flames soon shot forth
from the fire, which was, from time to time, supplied with
great quantities of fuel, and, at every blow of the bellows,
the vivid light flashed through the space around, which
was comparatively dark, from the disproportion between
the large area, and the few lights yet lighted. While some
of the men were occupied about the furnace, the light
striking on their sallow faces, and leaving all again in an
instant nearly dark, a number of the others were busy in
the distance, performing the operation of blowing the glass,
dipping their long tubes in the prepared substance, and
inflating the ball, till, red and glowing like a fire globe, it is
expanded to the size requisite for the purpose for which it
is intended. In this operation, the workmen are obliged
to be active in their movements, running backwards and
forwards between the furnace and the reservoirs, with the
hot, red, glaring glass globes at the end of the tubes, and
crossing and recrossing each other, in the dark obscure, so
as to present the appearance of demons engaged in some
mysterious operations of their avenging spirits. In all this,
the shining globes are the only appearances clearly discernible
in continuation ; the figures and faces of the men being
only at intervals shewn by the glare thrown upon them by
the glowing furnace, as it responds to the loud murmuring
bellow of the inflating and fire producing blast.

It may well be doubted whether any of the descriptions
of the infernal regions, as given by the three great epic
describers of that place of torment, would give a better
idea of Hades, than a view, during the dark hours of a
gloomy morning, of a great glass-work in active operation.
Many of the appearances are strikingly coincident with our
ideas of the place appointed for the wicked. The glowing
furnace ; the roaring bellows ; the crossing and recrossing of
the men with the fiery globes in their hands, which they
continue plunging into reservoirs, as if striking victims ; the
darkness, relieved only by the rising flame, which, falling
again, leaves the former gloom ; the wide expanse around
the rising walls of red brick, tapering up beyond the reach
of the eye, as if they sought the clouds ; and all the endless
apparatus lying around — cannot fail to suggest the most
striking resemblance to the peculiarities of the hell of the
poets. The impression produced on the mind of a person
visiting the works, is extraordinary and lasting ; and it is
not too much to say that a nervous individual, introduced
secretly, at a proper time, and without any knowledge of
the place, would be apt to be thrown into a state of gloom
and even fear, which he would not soon forget.

During all this time, and while this extraordinary work
was going on around him, Duncan Schulebred had been as
much unnoticed by the workmen as they had been by him.
He began at last to shew some signs of returning conscious-
ness, rolling his body backwards and forwards, as if under the
effect of a night-mare of the body, or of that more terrible
night-mare of the conscience by which he was often at
home so relentlessly ridden. And so he was. Some fright-
ful dreams had filled his mind with terrors ; and, having
produced a kind of half waking state, were followed, as
they usually were, by the gnawing of that power which
during night produced to him such torments. A dim
recollection came on him of all the wickedness he had
committed — the number of innocent individuals he had
cheated by his short measure and his damaged linen ; the
shirking of publicans, the duping of travellers, his drunken
ness, his lies, and false pretences — all his thoughts being
accompanied by the terrors of an evil conscience, which
whispered punishment by fire and brimstone, and filled
his half-sleeping fancy with vivid images of the place of
punishment. It is not unlikely that this half-sleeping, half-
waking, dreamy cogitation, was aided insensibly by the
partial operation of external sense, conveying some dim
intelligence of what was going on around him. But this
condition did not last long : he awoke to the full conviction
of being in the very place of the damned. He heard first
the roaring of the bellows ; then he saw the red brick
walls rising to heaven ; then his eyes turned on the terrific
furnace, vomiting forth its living fire, while the bearers of
the burning globes, hurrying to and fro past him and
around him, and plunging their fiery weapons into the
receptacles, (doubtless of the condemned wicked,) claimed,
on every side, his rapt and terrified gaze. Fear prevented
him from moving ; his cogitations took the form of a
soliloquy, and he communed with himself on his awful
condition.

" Mercy on my puir soul !" he exclaimed, but so as not
to let the devils hear him — se am I here at last ? When I
was in the body, hoo aften did I think and dream o' the
bottomless pit? — can it be that I'm now in't ? Alas ! it's owre
true ! What hae I, a wicked cratur, noo to expect frae
thae fiends for a' the sins dune i' the body ? But when
did I dee ? I dinna recollect the circumstance o' my death
— dootless apoplexy — ay, ay, I was aye fear't for't. Yet
did I no fa 'doon the stair o' The Barleycorn ? I did —
that's it — I had been killed by the fa'. Death's a sma' affair
to this. What a fiery furnace for a puir sinner ! See hoo
the devils rin wi' their burning brands, forkin them into
thae pits,, 'whar lie craturs in the same condition wi' mysel !
But hoo do they no come to me ? Ah ! the furnace is for
me, I see Satan himsel at the bellows, and it's no for
ilka sinner he wad condescend to work. It's for me wha
cheated the folk by my short ellwand at the rate o' thirty-
six inches o' claith a- week for fifteen years — wha drank, and
lee'd, and deceived, and committed sins reder than scarlet
and mair numerous than the mots i' the sun — ay, and wha
dee'd i' the very act o' cheatin Andrew Gavin, by sellin
him a wab o' damaged linen, and leavin him to pay my bill
at The Barleycorn. Alas ! am I at last in this awfu place !"

This soliloquy was accompanied by deep groans, wrung
from him by the conviction that he was truly in the place
appointed for the wicked. The sounds caught the ear of
one of the workmen called David Leechman, who, looking
over, saw, lying behind a reservoir, the unhappy Duncan.
Listening, he heard the speech, and understood in an instant
the import of it : that some one had lain down there in
a state of inebriety, and having fallen asleep, had wakened
to a conviction that he was in Pandemonium. He instantly
communicated the intelligence to some of his neighbours ;
and the son of a proprietor of the works, who was present,
having heard it, gave his countenance to the proposition of some

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

117

of the men — viz., that they should humour the notion of th.
condemned weaver, and draw out of him some amusement
The proprietor's son — a spirited and clever young man — wa
accordingly deputed to act the part of Prince Beelzebub
on whom the others were to attend as ministerial an<
subordinate devils ; each holding in his hand a glass
blowing tube, with a glowing ball (kept alive from time t
time) at the end of it. The Prince held up his hand anc
cried —

" Where is the weaver that cheated the public at th
rate of thirty-six inches of cloth perweek, and died, flagrant
dtliclo, in the very act of cheating our special friend Andre v
Gavin the writer, (for every writer is our special friend, an<
must be protected by us, so long as he Avrites lying defence
and long memorials,) by selling him damaged linen, anc
leaving him to pay his tavern bill ? Where is the scarle
rogue, that we may burn out the red of his sins by the rec
fire of this glowing furnace ?"

A loud yell, uttered by the simulated devils, was th
reply to this speech, and went to the very heart of th
trembling victim. The Prince, followed by his demons
approached him ; he was lying shaking, trembling, anc
groaning, upon his back, and looked at the approaching
legion, with their flaming brands, as they approached him
with an expression of countenance transcending anything
that could be produced by mere earthly agony, or describee
by a mere goose quill of the upper world.

" What is thy name, sinner ?" asked the Prince.

" Mercy on me !" ejaculated Duncan, " I'm in for't noo
An' please your excellent Majesty," replied he, in a voice
scarcely audible, from the effects of terror, " Duncan
Schulebred, wha, when in the upper warld, was by trade
a puir weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did yer Honour
some service i' my sma' way, and hope ye winna be sae ill
to me as ye threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi
their burnin torches, frae me, and I'll confess to ye a'
my crimes. Be mercifu to a puir sinner !"

" What service didst thou ever do to me ?" said Satan.

" I made ye some freens/' replied Duncan, still groan-
ing. " I did a' that was i' my pooer to get the craturs i'
the upper warld to drink wi' me till they were sae drunk
that ye micht hae run awa wi' them as easily as ye did wi'
Doctor Faustus or the exciseman. Oh, think o' that, and
save me frae that awfu furnace !"

" Confess, sinner," said the Devil, " that thou didst that
for the purpose of getting more easily quit of the tavern
bills. Thou didst also cheat the lieges by a false measure."

" Lord, he kens everything," muttered Duncan — " I
confess I did cheat the lieges ; but I assure yer Majesty,
upon my honour, that I never cheated ony o' yer Majesty's
freens ; for I aye dealt wi' honest folk. That's surely a
reason for some mercy."

11 Recollect thyself, varlet," said Satan — " didst thou
never cheat a writer ?"

" Hoo correct he is !" muttered Duncan, with a groan.
tf Ou ay — true, true — a' writers are yer Majesty's freens.
I forgot. I did cheat Andrew Gavin, by sellin him a
wab o' rotten linen, and leavin him to pay the lawin at
The Barleycorn — a name your Majesty, dootless, weel
kens."

" I think I should," replied Satan, " seeing that is my
grain, wherewith I work greater wonders than ever came
out of the mustard seed. This place is fed with barley-
corns— we bait our hooks with barleycorns — we spread
barleycorns under our men-nets — the very man who sang
the praises of the grain, under the personification of * John
Barleycorn,' and of its juice, under the soubriquet of
' barley-bree,' took our bait ; but a redeeming angel touched
him on the fore part of the stomach, and made him throw
it, and Heaven now boasts that glorious prize."

" Miserable as I am, I'm very glad o't," said Duncan,

whose fears began to decline. "• I wadna like to see ocr
darling poet in sic a place .is this."

" Impudent varlet !" said the Devil. " In with him into
the furnace ! Yet, stay. How much money did you cheat
our friend Andrew Gavin of?"

"I needna try to conceal it," said Duncan to himself.
He kens it as weel as I do. Here it is" (speaking out)
" and some mair — ye may hae it a,' if ye'll no consign me to
that red-hot fiery furnace. Fearfu, feurfu place 1"
" Count it out," said Satan.

Duncan complied with trembling hands, and Beelzebub
took up the money.

" That is a most precious commodity," said he. " They
say, above, that our dominions are puved with good inten-
tions— they should rather say, that it is paved with gold, a
metal with which the ancient infidels said, heaven was
constructed. Never was there a greater error. * The root
of all evil' cannot surely be found in the very birth-place
of good."

" I ken, at least," said Duncan, " that it was gowd that
brought me here. Cursed trash J It is the gowd and no
the puir sinners deceived by't that should be put into the
furnace. Weel, weel, has it been ca'ed the root o' a' evil.
Oh, cursed dross ! what am I to suffer for ye ?"

" Doth the creature malign our staple commodity," said
Satan, " and say it should be melted ? Away with him to
the furnace ! — melt him !"

Duncan screamed for mercy, while the workmen laid
hold of him, and proceeded to carry him to the mouth of
the furnace, which was blown up into a fearful red heat.
He continued to roar with tremendous vociferation, making
all the cone ring, and casting about his legs and arms, like
one distracted. Those of the workmen who were not
engaged in carrying him, brought within an inch of his
face, their burning globes of glass, and made indications as
if they would apply them to his body ; while the bearers,
turning his head to the fiery volcano, brought it within a
foot of the burning coal, and the whole ceremony was
accompanied by a chorus of loud yells, set up by the opera-
tors, and made to echo and reverberate throughout the area
of the cone. Independently, altogether, of the conviction of
being in the hands of the Devil and his legions, the situa-
tion of Duncan, with his head within a foot of a furnace, and
suiTOundedby wild-looking howling beings, intent apparently
on his destruction, would have terrified the stoutest heart ;
but he truly believed himself on the very eve of being
punished for his crimes, by being thrust head- foremost
into the burning furnace, from which no power could save
him. And who could contemplate that position without
horror ? His agony was inexpressible, except by screams ;
and it was cruelly prolonged by affected manoeuvres, such
as blowing the bellows, and stirring and restirring the
coals, to make them burn more fiercely, for the more
adequate reception of the greatest of human sinners tluit
had ever been consigned to the pit.

Having held him for some time in this position, Satan,
pretending to recollect himself, cried out —

" Achitophel, get the red-hot pincers. We were oblivious.
He hath not confessed all his crimes. We will pinch him
For a few hours before we consign him to the fire., which is
not, at any rate, red enough for so great a sinner. ^ Lay him
down close to the furnace, and bring a pair of pinchers for
each leg and arm."

The victim was laid before the furnace, screaming at the
top of his voice, and his eyes rolling about like fiery balls.
The pinchers were brought and put into the furnace, and
the bellows again sent forth their dreadful sound ; the
iowling was increased ; and all the men, as they uttered their
yells, danced round him, waving their red globes, and every
now and then bringing them within a few inches of his face.
The pincher were getting hot apace, by the fierce blowing

118

TALES OF THE BORDERS

of the bellows ; and one of the legion held the head of the
victim so as to force him to contemplate the instruments of
his torture. The confusion grew worse confounded — the
noise of the blowing forge, the howling of the legion, the
groaning and screaming of Duncan, the loud word of com-
mand of the Prince, all blending together to rend and distract
the ear; while the rapid motions of the dancers, and the
rising and falling of the bellows, made the eyes of the dis-
tracted being reel like those of a maniac.

This punishment was continued, until it appeared that
the terrified Duncan was about to faint. His cries
ceased, and fear seemed to lose its effect over him. It
was time to stop, as even amusement may be carried to
the verge of death — and the unfortunate Duncan was more
like death than life. The young man who acted the Prince
accordingly gave the sign for his legion to stop, and in an
instant the bellows ceased to blow, and the men to dance,
and all was as still as death. Apprehensive of having
killed the victim by pure fright, the Prince, assisted by some
of the legion, lifted him to a distance from the furnace, and
having held up his head so as to get him to sit, some
whisky (bought with a part of his own money) was brought
from a neighbouring ale-house. As he sat pale and trem-
bling, and looking wistfully about him, the chief actor filled
up a glass of the spirits, and offered it to him. He seemed
irresolute and timid — looking first at the whisky, then at
the men, and much at a loss what to think of his position.
His grotesque appearance forced the chief actor to smile :
the effect was instantaneous — Duncan caught the favour-
able indication, and took the glass into his hands.

" I didna think," said he, " that there wras ony o' this
kind o' liquor here. I expected naething but melted brim-
stone, said to be the staple drink o' your dominions. But
is it really whisky ? It's surely impossible — if the circum-
stance got wind aboon, that there was whisky in these
parts, there wad be nae keepin folk oot. Hoo dinna ye
spread the intelligence ? surely ye're no sae Keen for recruits
as ye were when ye danced awa wi' the exciseman."

" It is already known on earth that whisky was first
brewed in Pandemonium," said the actor. "The nectar
belongs to heaven, the wine to earth, and the whisky to the
infernal regions. A thousand poets have sung about the
drink of the gods, and a little old fellow (a Greek) who lies
in one of these troughs, getting his Avine-heated pate cooled
with brimstone every five minutes, danced and sang the
praises of wine till I got hold of him at the age of eighty.
The only poet who has let out the secret of whisky being
first brewed in our regions was a person of the name of
M'Neil, who sang —

Of a' the ills puir Caledonia

E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,
Brewed in Hell's black Pandemonia,

Whisky's ill has scaithed her maist.

I tried to get hold of the fellow, for his impudence in
maligning our favourite liquor ; but he wrote some sweet
poems, and the gods took him under their wing."

" Ye were muckle indebted, I think," replied Duncan,
" to Hector, for tellin the folk that whisky was brewed
here. It will save your Majesty a warld o' trouble ; for
customers, o' their ain accord, will come in millions, ' linkin
to the black pit,' if they're sure o' the spark,"

*' They are sure of the spark" replied the Prince. "• But
ive give it here only as a medicine whereby we recover
our patients that they may be the more able to feel our
torments. The moment thou drinkest, the pinchers will be
applied."

"Then I beg leave to decline the liquor," said Duncan.
" I see nae use for fire baith ootside and in ; besides, I hae
renounced the practice o' drinkin at another person's
expense — a tred I followed owre lang in the upper regions,
to my sad cost this day."

" Thou hast paid for this with the money thou gavest
me," said the actor.

" That's mair than I ever did upon earth," said Duncan,
vdth a leer which he could not restrain.

It will have been seen that the truth had for some
time been dawning upon the mind of the condemned
culprit. He looked round and round him, and every
look added fresh proof of the delusio-n under which
he laboured. Looking into the face of Satan, he even was
bold enough to smile, accompanying the act with one of his
inimitable leers. It was impossible to resist his look of sly
humour; and the whole company broke outintoafit of laiigh-
ter, which made all the cone ring again. Seizing the whisky
he looked round upon all the parties, and, boAving, said — •

" Gentlemen, I'm obleeged to ye for the trouble ye hae
taen on my account. I see noo hoo the land lies ; but
though I ken the hail extent o' this awfu delusion, dinna
think that the part ye hae played is a piece o' mere fun and
humour, to form afterwards the foundation o' a guid story
Ye hae dune mair this mornin for the regeneration o' a
puir sinner, than was effected by a' the sermons I ever
heard frae the pu'pits o' Scotland. I hae confessed my
crimes to ye, and I canna expect that this cone is to confine
for evermy evil reputation. Itmaun gae abroad, and condemn
me, and ruin me ; but" (lowering his voice seriously) u I
will defy it to prevent me frae followin the course I hae
this day determined to pursue. Frae this hour henceforth,
to that moment when it may please Heaven to tak me frae
this warld, I shall be an upright, a sober, and a religious
man. The folk I hae injured, cheated, and robbed, I will
try to benefit to the utmost extent o' my puir ability. And
every day o' my life will be dedicated to the service o' the
Almighty, and the guid o' his craturs. My first step will
be to gang to Edinburgh, and pay back to Andrew Gavin
the price o' the damaged linen he purchased frae me, and
to settle the tavern bill at The Barleycorn, to assist me
whereunto ye will dootless gie me back my siller. This
resolution I confirm thus." And he flung the whisky into
the furnace, which blazed up, a kind of holocaust, as a
thanksgiving for the regeneration of a sinner.

Duncan's money was paid back to him honestly, and the
actors were well pleased that they had, out of their amuse-
ment, wrought so extraordinary a miracle. The regenerate^
man departed from the glassworks, and proceeded, according
to his intention, direct to Edinburgh. He called first at
Andrew Gavin's house.

" Is Mr Gavin within ?" said he, to Mrs Gavin.

" My husband," said the disconsolate wife, " hasna been
at hame a' nicht. The last time I saw him was when he
departed wi' you. "What hae ye dune wi' him ? I fear
some sad mischief has befa'en him ; for unless he's at a prufe
or after a fugy, he never stays oot o' his ain hoose at nicht.
But what kind o' linen was that ye sauld him ?"

"It was a piece o' rotten linen I sauld him," replied
Duncan, sternly.

Mrs Gavin looked at him in amazement.

<f Ay, and," he continued, " your husband is dootless
locked up in The Barleycorn, because he couldna — puir
man ! — pay the lawin that I should hae paid and ran awa
and left him to pay."

Mrs Gavin's amazement was increased.

" Ay, and," continued he, " I hae cheated thoosandsbesidee
you and yer husband — a greater sinner than I hae been,
ye wadna find between the Mull o' Galloway and John o'
Groats. If I had got my due, I wad hae been hanged, or
at least sent to Botany Bay."

" Are you mad, or do you glory m your wickedness ? '
said Mrs Gavin.

" Nane o' the twa," said Duncan. ec I am as wise as ye
are ; and, in place o' gloryin in my wickedness., I am as re-
pentant as a deein martyr."

TALES U*1 TilE BOKDER&

" .Repentance is naething withoot warks," replied she.

«« Warks !" ejaculated Duncan. <• Bring, bring me the
rotten linen."

The astonished woman went and brought the article.

"There's the siller," said Duncan, " I got frae yer husband
for that wab. I'll sell it noo for what it is — a piece
o' vile deception. Need ye a commodity o' that description ?"

" I think I could find use for't," said Mrs Gavin. " It
has ae guid end, but yell come to an ill ane when ye"

"row it down," she would have said, but Duncan

caught her : —

" When ye cheat yer neighbour," added he. " Ye're
quite right, madam ; a rotten-hearted wab is just like a
rotten-hearted man — they baith come to an ill end. Oh,
hoo gratefu I am to thae glass-blawers, wha hae blawn awa
ray crimes, and converted and reformed me 1"

" He is surely mad after a'," muttered Mrs Gavin, to
herself — "wha ever heard o' glass-blawers convertin sinners?
I hae aye understood that glass-blawers are free livers, and
need repentance themselves as muckle as ither folk. Hoo
could they convert ye ?"

" There are strange mysteries i' the warld," said Duncan ;
" but we will better let that subject alane. We only, after a',
see ' as through a glass darkly.' Stick to the linen — what is it
worth ?"

Mrs Gavin stated a price, Duncan accepted her offer,
and the damaged linen was sold.

" Noo," said Duncan, " I'll send ye yer husband."

" I will be obleeged to ye," said Mrs Gavin ; " and if
ye can get the glass-blawers to gie him a blast, yer kindness
wad be increased far beyond my puir pooers o 'recompense."

" Ah, madam," said Duncan, " writers are owre weel
accustomed to blasts o the horn, to care for ordinary wind-
fa's. I ken nae better thing for an ill husband (no sayin
that Andrew is liable to that charge) than a blast o' a
wife's tongue. God be praised, Janet Schulebred will hae
nae mair cause to lecture me ! We will now live happily
durin the remainin portion o' the time o' oor pilgrimage.
.1 hae aye taen something hame to her. Last year I took
some whisky bottles—probably made at the glasswarks o'
Leith ; this time, I intend to tak a family Bible. Guid day,
madam — I'm awa to The Barleycorn ; and frae that I gang
to a Bible repository, and then hame."

He repaired to The Barleycorn. He saw the landlord
standing at the door, with a sombre face. He had the key
of the room in his hand, and looked the very picture of a
jailer. He knew Duncan instantly, and was proceeding to
seize him, when the latter surrendered himself with so
much good humour that the publican gave up his purpose
and smiled at the prospect of getting his money.

tf You forgot to come back last night," said the man.
" Mr Gavin says that you were the principal debtor to me
for my drink, and that he was merely surety or cautioner.
Is that true ?"

" Perfectly true," replied Duncan. " I promised to pay
the bill, and should hae paid the bill ; but I was determined
I wadna pay the bill. Accordingly, 1 ran awa for nae
ither purpose than to avoid payin it."

" A trick yell no play a second time," said the publican,
seizing him.

" No," said Duncan, taking out money, u seein I am
come to pay ye plack and farthin. Let us adjourn to Mi-
Gavin's prison."

' The vera place I intended to tak ye to," said the man.

They proceeded to the room where Andrew was confined,
and found him sitting in a sombre fit of melancholy. As
they entered, he looked at Duncan with an appearance of
mixed anger and satisfaction. The latter feeling predomi-
nated, as his mind suggested that the poor weaver had been
prevented by drunkenness from returning immediately to
uay the bill, and had now come to make amends.

119

I hae been angry at ye, Duncan," said he; "but I
micnt hae had mair faith in yer honour, than to doot
ye without better proof o' dishonesty than no returnin
(when ye werena able) to pay yer debts."

< Ye couldna hae a better proof o' my dishonesty"
replied Duncan, sternly; « for, last nicht, when I ran awa
withoot payin the lawin, I had nae mair intention o'
coimn back than I had o' gangin doun to the bottomless

Andrew looked at the speaker with the same amazement
as was exhioited by his wife.

"How comes it, then," said the writer. " that ye hae
returned here this morning ?"

" I hae got some new licht " replied Andrew. « Ye ken—

So long's the lamp holds on to burn,
The greatest sinner may return.

I hae returned, no only to this tavern to pay my debt, but
to a proper sense o' what is due to Heaven and to my
fellow-creatures. I am a changed man, sir. Nae ' vision
o' judgment,' penned by Southey or Byron, ever trans-
cended that o' the bottle-blavvers o' Leith."

The writer considered him mad, and trembled for the
payment of the bill, which could not be extorted from a
maniac. The tavern-keeper took a calmer view, and
thought he was still drunk.

" \Vhat are ye starin at ?" said Duncan. " Did ye
never before see a repentant sinner? Bring yer bill,
sir. And, Mr Gavin, I refer ye to Mrs Gavin for some
information respectin a wab o' rotten linen I sauld ye
yesterday, bought back again, and sauld again to her thia
rnornin."

The tavern-keeper brought the bill, which Duncan dis-
charged.

" I cheated ye, Mr Gavin, also o' the price o' the stirrup-
cup."

" Let us drink it noo," said Mr Gavin — " Bring us a
gill" — to the tavern-keeper.

The whisky was brought, and the writer took cleverly
his morning dram, a practice which the craft has latterly
renounced, but which they should have recourse to again,
as a glass of whisky is a good beginning to a day's roguery,
and has, besides, sometimes the same effect upon the con-
science that it produces on the toothache — stills the pain.
A glass was next filled out for Duncan. He took it up
and held it in his hand.

" Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I saw last nicht,
he said to the tavern-keeper.

u It is only newly lighted," was the apology of the host.

" It may be the better o' that," said the other, throwing
the whisky into the grate, and making the fire blaze up.
" Sae should a' burnin, fiery liquors be used. They might
then warm the outsides, in place o' burnin the insides o
sinners. Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my repent-<
ance. This is ane o' them. Ye may hear and see mair,
if ye consider Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer considera-
tion, and trace his conduct through this weary, wicked,
waefu warld, during the remainin period o' an ill-begun
but (I hope) weel-ended life."

THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.

HAVING laid before our readers a story the truth of which
may be testified by the evidence of living witnesses, we will
now add an account of another supposed descent into the
infernal regions, performed by another individual belonging
to the same town, equally true as the adventure of Duncan
Schulebred, but unfortunately having a very different ter-
mination.

W B was a respectable merchant in Dunferm-

120

TALES OF THE BORDKRS.

line, where he had carried on business for a great many
years, under the reputation of being, at least, in very easy
circumstances, if not wealthy. A good business, a com-
fortable wife, and a fair reputation, were supposed to have
conspired to produce in him as much happiness and content-
ment as generally falls to the lot of the people of this
lower world ; nor did the appearance of the man belie in
the slightest degree the supposition so naturally and legiti-
mately formed : he was always in good humour, active,
bustling, cheerful, and loquacious; and if he did not succeed
in his attempts to produce mirth in the people who fre-
quented his place of business, he made up the deficiency
by an ever ready chorus of his own, the sound of which
seemed to please him nearly as well as the tributary laugh-
ter of others. In the very midst of all this apparent con-

tentedness, W B disappeared all at once. No

one could tell Avhither he had gone ; and his wife was just
as ignorant of his destination or fate as any one else. That
he had left the country, could not be supposed, because he
had taken nothing with him ; that he had made away with
himself, was almost as unlikely, seeing that it is not gen-
erally in the midst of gaiety and good humour that people
commit suicide. Every search, however, was made for
him, but all in vain — no trace could be found of him,
except that a person who had been near the old ruin called
the Magazine, part of the old castle in the neighbourhood
of the town, reported that, on the night when he disappeared,
he, the narrator, heard in that quarter a very extraordinary
soliloquy from the lips of some one in great agony ; but
that all his efforts (for it was dark) could not enable him
to ascertain who or where he was. So far as he could
recollect, the words of the person were as follows : —

" The self-destroyer has nae richt to expect a better place.
(Groans.) A' is dark and dismal — a thousand times mair sae
than what my fancy ever pictured upon earth. But there
will be licht sune, ay, and scorchin fires, and a' the ither
terrors o' the place whar the wicked receive the reward o'
their sins. If I had again the days to begin, which, when
in the body, I spent sae fruitlessly and sinfully, hoo wad
I be benefited by this sicht o' the very entrance to the
regions o' the miserable ? and yet does not the great author
o' guid strive, wi' a never-wearyin energy, by dreams and
visions, and revelations and thoughts, which vain man
tries to measure and value by the gauge o' his insignificant
reason, to shew him what I now see, and turn him to the
practice o' a better life. This is a narrow pit — there is
neither room for the voice o' lamentation, nor for the
struggle o' the restless limbs o' the miserable ; the light,
and the air, and the space, and the view o' the blue heavens,
and the fair earth, which mak men proud, as if they
were proprietors o' the upper world, and sinfu as if its joys
were made for them, are vanished, and a narrow cell, nae
bigger than my body, wi' nae air, nae licht, nae warmth —
cauld, dark, lonely, and dismal — is the last and eternal place
appointed for the wicked. (Groans.) On earth, men, though
einners, hae the companionship o' men ; here my only com-
panion is a gnawin conscience, the true fire o' the lower pit,
and a thousand times waur than a' the imagined flames
which haunt the minds o' the doers o' evil."

These dreadful words were spoken at intervals, and loud
groans bespoke the agony of the sufferer. The individual
who heard them, at a loss what to conceive, became alarmed,
ran away to get assistance, and, in a short time, returned,
•with a companion and a light, to search among the old
ruins for the individual who was thus apparently suffering
under the imagined terrors of the last place of punishment.
They looked carefully up and down, throughout the place
called the Magazine, among the ruins of the castle, and in
every hole and cranny of the neighbourhood, but neither
could they see any human being, nor hear again any of the
extraordinary sounds which had chained the ear of the

listener, and roused his terrors. The idea of a supernatural
presence, was the first that presented itself ; and a ghost
giving its hollow utterance to the lamentations of its
suffering spirit, confined, doubtless, in some of the vaults of
the castle, and struggling for that liberty which depends
upon the performance of some penance upon earth, was
the ready solution of a difficulty which defied all recourse
to ordinary means of explanation. Having ascertained
that nothing was to be seen or heard, the two friends
returned to the town, where they told what had happened.
The disappearance about that time of W B sug-
gested to many a more rational explanation of the mysterious
affair ; and a number of people adjourned to the Magazine,
for the purpose of exploring its dark recesses more
thoroughly, under the conviction that the missing indi-
vidual might be concealed in some part that had not been
searched. Every effort was employed in vain. They
penetrated all the holes, and explored all the dark corners—
nothing was to be seen, nothing heard, and the conclusion
was arrived at, either that the narrator was deceiving or
deceived, or that the spirit had ceased to issue its lament-
ations.

For many days and many years afterwards, no trace

could be had of W B , nor was there ever even

so much as whispered, a single statement of any one who
had seen him either alive or dead. The food for speculation
which the mysterious affair afforded to the minds of the
inhabitants, was for a time increased by the total want of
success which attended all the efforts of inquiry ; and, after
the fancies of all had been exhausted by the vain work of
endeavouring to discover that which seemed to be hid by
a higher power from human knowledge, the circumstance
degenerated into one of the wonders of nature, supplying
the old women with the material of a fire-side tale, for the
amusement or terror of children. But it would seem that
the energies of vulgar every-day life, are arrayed with in-
vetrate hostility against the luxury of a mystery so greedily
grasped at by all people, however thoroughly liberated from
the prejudices of early education or of late sanctification ;
and accordingly, one day, many years after the occurrences
now mentioned, as some boys were amusing themselves
among the ruins of the old castle, they discovered lying in a
hole — called the Piper's Hole, from the circumstance of a
piper having once entered it with a pair of bagpipes, which
he intended to play on till he reached the end of it. but
never returned' — the body of a man reduced to a skeleton,
but retaining on his bare bones the clothes which he had

worn when in life. It was the body of W B .

On searching his pockets, there was found in one of them
a few pence, and in another a bottle, with a paper label
marked "• Laudanum."

This discovery cleared up all mystery. The unfortunate
man had intended to kill himself in such a way as would
put his suicidal act beyond the knowledge of his friends,
and had resorted to the extraordinary plan of creeping up
into the dark and narrow passage, where the action of the
fatal soporific had produced the delusion that he was in the
place appointed for the wicked, with the soliloquy already
detailed — and then death. The physical mystery was cleared
up ; but a mystery of a moral nature remains, which will
bid defiance to the revealing efforts of philosophers — the
strength and peculiarity of feeling which, working on a sane
mind, produced a purpose so extraordinary, and the resolu-
tion to carry it into effect.

WILSON'S

l^fetotfral, arra&fttonavg, anH

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON.

MY departure from Edinburgh was sudden and mysteri-
ous ; and it was high time that I was away, for I was but a
reckless boy at the best. I was well named by my school-
mates, " Willie the Wight." My uncle was both sore vexed
and weary of me, for I was never out of one mishap until
I was into another ; but one illumination night in the city
put them all into the rear — I had, by it, got far ahead of
all my former exploits. Very early next morning, I got
notice from a friend that the bailies were very desirous of
an interview with me ; and, to do me more honour, I was to
be escorted into their presence. I had no inclination for
such honour, particularly at this time. I saw that our dis-
course could not be equally agreeable to both parties ; ber
sides they, I knew, would put questions to me I could not
well answer to their satisfaction — though, after all, there was
more of devilry than roguery in anything I .had been 'en-
gaged in.

I was not long in making up my mind ; for I saw Archi-
bald Campbell and two of the town-guard at the head of
the close as I stepped out at the stair-foot. I had no doubt
that I was the person they wished to honour with their ac-
companiment to the civic authorities. I was out at the
bottom of the close like thought. I believe they never go*
sight of me. I kept in hiding all day — neither my uncle
nor any of my friends knew where I was to be found*
After it was dark, I ventured into town ; but no farther
than the Low Calton, where dwelt an old servant of my
father's, who had been my nurse after the death of my
mother. She was a widow, and lived in one of the ground
flats, where she kept a small retail shop. Poor creature !
she loved me as if I had been her own child, and wept
when I told her the dilemma I was in. She promised to
conceal me until the storm blew over, and to make my
peace once more with my uncle, if I would promise to be a
good boy in future. She made ready for me a comfortable
supper, and a bed in her small back room. Weary sitting
alone, I went to rest, and soon fell into a sound sleep. I had
lain thus, I know not how long, when I was roused by a
loud noise, as if some person or persons had fallen on the
floor above ; and voices in angry altercation struck my ear.

The weather being cold, my nurse had put on a fire in the
grate, which still burned bright, and gave the room a cheer-
ful appearance. I looked up — the angry voices continued.,
and there was a continued beating upon the floor at inter-
vals, and, apparently, a great struggling, as if two people
were engaged in wrestling. I attempted to fall asleep again^
but in vain. For half an hour there had been little inter-
mission of the noise. The ceiling of the room was composed
only of the flooring of the story above ; so that the thumping
and scufllingwere most annoying, reminding one of the sound
of a drum overhead. I rose in anger from my bed, and, seiz-
ing the poker, beat up upon the ceiling pretty smartly. The
sound ceased for a short space, and I crept into bed again. ]
was just on the point of falling asleep when the beating and
struggling was renewed, and with them my anger. I rose from
bed in great fury, resolved at least to make those who an-
noyed me rise from the floor. I looked around for something
120. VOL. Ill

[sharp, to prick them through the joinings of the flooring-
deals. By bad luck, I found upon the mantel-piece an old
worn knife, with a thin and sharp point. I mounted upon
the table, and thus reached the ceiling with my hand.
The irritating noise seemed to increase. I placed the point
in one of the joints, and gave a push up — it would not en-
ter. I exerted my strength, when — I shall never forget that
moment — it ran up to the hilt ! — a heavy groan followed ; I
drew it back covered with blood ! I stood upon the table
stupified with horror, gazing upon the ensanguined blade ;
two or three heavy drops of blood fell upon my face and went
into my eyes. I leaped from the table, and placed the knife
where I had found it. The noise ceased ; but heavy drops
of blood continued to fall and coagulate upon the floor at
my feet. I felt stupified with fear and anguish — my eyes
were riveted upon the blood which — drop, drop, drop — fell
upon the floor. I had stood thus for some time before the dan-
ger I was in occurred to me. I started, hastily put on my
clothes, and, opening the window, leapt out, fled by the
back of the houses, past the Methodist Chapel, up the back
stairs into Shakspeare Square, and along Princes' Street ;
nor did I slacken my pace until I was a considerable way
out of town.

I was now miserable. The night was dark as a dungeon ;
but not half so dark as my own thoughts. I had deprived
a fellow-creature of life ! In vain did I say to myself that
it was done with no evil intention on my part. I had been
I too rash in using the knife ; and my conscience was against
me. I was, at this very time, also, in hiding for -my rash-
ness and folly in other respects. I trembled at the first ap-
pearance of day, lest I should be apprehended as a murderer.
Dawn found me in the neighbourhood of Bathgate. Cold
and weary as I was, I dared not approach a house or the
public road, but lay concealed in a wood all day, under
sensations of the utmost horror. Towards evening, I cau-
tiously emerged from my hiding-place. Compelled by hun-
ger, I entered a lonely house at a distance from the public
road, and, for payment, obtained some refreshment, and got
ray benumbed limbs warmed. During my stay, I avoided
all unnecessary conversation. I trembled lest they would
speak of the murder in Edinburgh; for, had they done so, my
agitation must have betrayed me. After being refreshed, I
left the hospitable people, and pursued, under cover of the
night, my route to Glasgow, which I reached a short time
after daybreak. Avoiding the public streets, I entered the
first public-house I found open at this early hour, where 1
obtained a warm breakfast and a bed, of both which I stood
greatly in need. I soon fell asleep, in spite of the agitation
of my mind ; but my dreams were far more horrifying than
my waking thoughts, dreadful as they were. I awoke early
in the afternoon, feverish and unrefreshed.

After some time spent in summoning up resolution, I
requested my landlady to procure for me a sight of any of
the Edinburgh newspapers of the day before. She brought
one to me. My agitation was so great that I dared not
trust myself to take it out of her hand, lest she had per-
ceived the tremor I was in ; but requested her to lay it
down, while I appeared to be busy adjusting my dress-
carefully, all the time, keeping my back to her. I had two

122

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

objects in view : I wished to see the shipping-list, as it was
my aim to leave the country for America by the first oppor-
tunity ; and, secondly, to see what account the public had
got of my untoward adventure. I felt conscious that all
the city was in commotion about it, and the authorities
dispatched for my apprehension ; for I had no doubt that
my nurse would at once declare her innocence, and tell who
had done the deed. With an anxiety I want words to ex-
press, I grasped the paper as soon as the landlady retired,
and hurried over its columns until I reached the last.
During the interval, I believe I scarcely breathed ; I looked
it over once more with care ; I felt as if a load had been
lifted from my breast — there was not in the whole paper a
single word of a death by violence or accident. I thought
it strange, but rejoiced. I felt that I was not in such im-
minent danger of being apprehended ; but my mind was still
racked almost to distraction.

I remained in my lodging, for several days, very ill, both
from a severe cold I had caught and distress of mind. I
had seen every paper during the time. Still there was
nothing in them applicable to my case. I was bewildered,
and knew not what to think. Had the occurrences of that
fearful night, I thought, been only a delusion — some horrid
dream or night-mare? Alas ! the large drops of blood that still
stained my shirt, which, in my confusion, I had net changed,
drove from my mind the consoling hope ; they were damn-
ing evidence of a terrible reality. My mind reverted back
to its former agony, which became so aggravated by the
silence of the public prints that I was rendered desperate.
The silence gave a mystery to the whole occurrence, more
unendurable than if I had found it narrated in the most
aggravated language, and my person described, with a re-
ward for my apprehension.

As soon as my sickness had a little abated, and I was
able to go out, I went in the evening, a little before ten
o'clock, to the neighbourhood of where the coach from
Edinburgh stopped. I walked about until its arrival,
shunning observation as much as possible. At length it
came. No one descended from it whom I recollected ever
to have seen. Rendered desperate, I followed two travellers
into a public house which they entered, along with the
guard. For some time, I sat an attentive listener to their
conversation. It was on indifferent subjects ; and I watched
an opportunity to join in their talk. Speaking with an air
of indifference, I turned the conversation to the subject I
had so much at heart — the local news of the city. They
gave me what little they had ; but not one word of it con-
cerned my situation. I inquired at the guard if he would,
next morning, be so kind as take a letter to Edinburgh,
for Widow Neil, in the Low Calton.

" "With pleasure," he said — " I know her well, as I live
close by her shop ; but, poor woman, she has been very un-
well for these two or three days past. There has been some
strange talk of a young lad who vanished from her house,
no one can tell how ; she is likely to get into trouble from
the circumstance, for it is surmised he has been murdered
in her house, and his body carried off, as there was a quan-
tity of blood upon the floor. No one suspects her of it ; but
still it is considered strange that she should have heard no
noise, and can give no account of the affair."

This statement of the guard surprised me exceedingly.
Why was the affair mentioned in so partial and unsatis-
factory a manner ? Why was I, a murderer, suspected of
being myself murdered ? Why did not this lead to an in-
vestigation, which must have exposed the whole horrid
mystery of the death of the individual up stairs ? I could
not understand it. My mind became the more perplexed,
the more I thought of it. Yet, so far, I had no reason to
complain. Nothing had been said in any respect implicat-
ing me. Perhaps I had killed nobody ; perhaps I had only
wounded some one who did not know whence the stab

came ; or perhaps the person killed or wounded was an out-
law, and no discovery could be made of his situation. All
these thoughts rushed through my mind as I sat beside the
men. I at last left them, being afraid to put further
questions.

I went to my lodgings and considered what I should do
I conceived it safest to write no letters to my friends, or saj
anything further on the subject. I meditated upon the pro-
priety of going to America, and had nearly made up my
mind to that step. Every day, the mysterious affair became
more and more disagreeable and painful to me. I gave up
making further inquiries, and even carefully avoided, for a
time, associating with any person or reading any news-
paper. I gradually became easier, as time, which brought
no explanation to me, passed over ; but the thought still lay
at the bottom of my heart, that I was a murderer.

I went one day to a merchant's counting-house, to take
my passage for America. The man looked at me attentively.
I shook with fear, but he soon relieved me by asking—" Why
I intended to leave so good a country for so bad a one ?"
I replied, that I could get no employment here. My
appearance had pleased him. He offered me a situation in
his office. I accepted it. I continued in Glasgow, happy
and respected, for several years, and, to all likelihood, wag
to Lave settled there for life. I was on the point of marriage
with a young woman, as I thought, every way worthy of
the love I had for her. Her parents were satisfied ; the
day of our nuptials was fixed — the ' house was taken and
furnished wherein we were to reside, and everything pre-
pared. In the delirium of love, I thought myself the hap-
piest of men, and even forgot the affair of the murder.

It was on the Monday preceding our union — which was
to take place in her father's house, on the Friday evening —
that business of the utmost importance called me to the
town of Ayr. I took a hasty farewell of my bride, and
set off, resolved to be back upon the Thursday at farthest.
Early in the forenoon of Tuesday, I got everything arranged
to my satisfaction ; but was too late for the first coach. To
amuse myself in the best manner I could, until the coach
should set off again, I wandered down to the harbour; and,
while there, it was my misfortune to meet an old acquaint-
ance, Alexander Cameron, the son of a barber in the Lucken-
booths. Glad to see each other, we shook hands most cor-
dially ; and, after chatting about " auld langsyne" until we
were weary wandering upon the pier, I proposed to adjourn
to my inn. To this proposal he at once acceded, on con-
dition that I should go on board of his vessel afterwards,
when he would return the visit in the evening. To this I
had no objection to make. The time passed on until the
dusk. We left the inn; but, instead of proceeding to the
harbour, we struck off into the country for some time, and
then made the coast at a small bay, where I could just
discern, through the twilight, a small lugger-rigged vessel at
anchor. I felt rather uneasy, and began to hesitate ; when
my friend, turning round, said —

" That is my vessel, and as fine a crew mans her as ever
walked a deck ; — we will be on board ii . a minute."

I wished, yet knew not how, to refuse. He made a loud
call ; a boat with two men pushed from under a point, and '
we were rowing towards the vessel ere I could summons
resolution to refuse. I remained on board not above an
hour. I was treated in the most kindly manner. When I
was coming away, Cameron said —

" I have requested this visit from the confidence I
feel in your honour. I ask you not to promise not to
deceive me — I am sure you will not. My time is very
uncertain upon this coast, and I have papers of the utmost
importance, which I wish to leave in safe hands. We are
too late to arrange them to-night ; but be so kind as pro-
mise to be at the same spot where we embarked, to-morrow
morning, at what hour you please, and I will deliver them

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

123

to you. Should it ever be in my power to serve you, I will
not flinch from the duty of gratitude, cost what it may."

There was a something so sincere and earnest in his
manner, that I could not refuse. I said, that, as I left Ayr
on the morrow, I would make it an early hour — say six
o'clock ; which pleased him. We shook hands and parted,
when I was put on shore, and returned to my inn, where I
ruminated upon what the charge could be I was going to
receive from my old friend in so unexpected a manner.

I was up betimes, and at the spot by the appointed hour.
The boat was in waiting ; but Cameron was not with her.
I was disappointed, and told one of the men so ; he replied
that the capta"1 expected me on board to breakfast. With
a reluctance much stronger than I had felt the preceding
night, I consented to go on board. I found him in the
cabin, and the breakfast ready for me. We sat down, and
began to converse about the papers. Scarce was the second
cup filled out, when a voice called down the companion,
" Captain, the cutter !" Cameron leaped from the table,
and ran on deck. I heard a loud noise of cordage and
bustle ; but could not conceive what it was, until the motion
of the vessel too plainly told that she was under way. I
rose in haste to get upon deck ; but the cover was secured.
I knocked and called ; but no one paid any attention to my
efforts. I stood thus knocking, and calling at the stretch
of my voice, for half an hour, in vain. I returned to my
seat, and sat down, overcome with anger and chagrin.
Here was I again placed in a disagreeable dilemma — evi-
dently going far out to sea, when I ought to be on my way
to Glasgow to my wedding. In the middle of my ravings,
I heard first one shot, then another ; but still the ripple
of the water and the noise overhead continued. I was now
convinced that I was on board of a smuggling lugger, and
that Cameron was either sole proprietor or captain. I
wished with all my heart that the cutter might overtake
and capture us, that I might be set ashore ; but all my
wishes were vain — we still held on our way at a furious
rate. As I heard no more shots, I knew that we had left
the cutter at a greater distance. Again, therefore, I strove
to gain a hearing, but in vain : I then strove to force the
hatch, but it resisted all my efforts. I yielded myself at
length to my fate ; for the way of the vessel was not in the
least abated.

Towards night, I could find, by the pitching of the vessel
and the increased noise above, that the wind had increased
fearfully, and that it blew a storm. It was with difficulty
that I could keep my seat, so much did she pitch. During
the whole night and following day, I was so sick that I
thought I would have died. I had no light ; there was no
human creature to give me a mouthful of water; and I
could not help myself even to rise from the floor of the
cabin, on which I had sunk. The agony of my mind was
extreme : the day following was to have been that of my
marriage ; I was at sea, and knew not where I was. I
blamed myself for my easy, complying temper ; my misery
increased ; and, could I have stood on my feet, I know not
what I might have done in my desperate situation. Thus
I spent a second night j and the day which I had thought
was to shine on mv happiness, dawned on my misery.

Towards the afternoon, the motion of the vessel ceased,
and I heard the anchor drop. Immediately the hatch was
opened, and Cameron came to me. I rose in anger, so
great that I could not give it utterance. Had I not been
so weak from sickness, I would have flown and strangled
him. He made a thousand apologies for what had hap-
pened. I saw that his concern was real ; my anger sub-
sided into melancholy, and my first utterance was employed
to inquire where we were.

" I am sorry to say," replied he, " that I cannot but feel
really grieved to inform you that we are at present a few
leagues off Flushing."

" Good God !" I exclaimed, as I buried my face in my
hands, while I actually wept for shame—" I am utterly un-
done! What will my beloved Eliza say? How shall I ever
appear again before her and her friends ? Even now, per.
haps, she is dressing to be my Avife, 91- weeping in the arms
of her bridesmaid. The thought will drive me mad. For
Godsake, Cameron, get under way, and land me again either
at Greenock or where you first took me up, or I am utterly
undone. Do this, and I will forget all I have suffered and
am suffering."

" I would, upon my soul," he said, " were it in my power,
though I should die in a jail ; but, while this gale lasts, it
were folly to attempt it. Besides, I am not sole proprietor
of the lugger— I am only captain. My crew are sharers in
the cargo. I would not get their consent. The thought
of the evil I was unintentionally doing you, gave me more
concern than the fear of capture. Had the storm not come
on, I would have risked all to have landed you somewhere
in Scotland ; but it was so severe, and blowing from the
land, that there was no use to attempt it. I hope, however,
the weather will now moderate, and the wind shift, when
I will run you back, or procure you a passage in the first
craft that leaves for Scotland."

I made no answer to him, I was so absorbed in my own
reflections. I walked the deck like one distracted, praying
for a change in the weather. For other three days, it blew,
with less or more violence, from the same point — duringwhich
time I scarcely ever ate or drank, and never went to bed.
On the forenoon of Monday, the wind shifted. I went im-
mediately ashore in the boat, and found a brig getting under
way for Leith. I stepped on board, and took farewell of
Captain Cameron, whom I never saw again, and wish I had
never seen him in my life.

After a tedious passage of nine days, during which we
had baffling winds and calms, we reached Leith Roads about
seven in the evening. It was low water, and the brig could
not enter the harbour for several hours. I was put ashore
in the boat, and hastened up to the Black Bull Inn, in order
to secure a seat in the mail for Glasgow, which was to start in
a few minutes. As I came up Leith Walk, my feelings
became of a mixed nature. I thought of Widow Niel and
the murder, as I looked over at the Calton ; then my mind
reverted to my bride. I got into the coach, and was soon
on the way to Glasgow. I laid myself back in a corner,
and kept a stubborn silence. I could not endure to enter
into conversation with my fellow-travellers : I scarce heard
them speak — my mind was so distracted by what had be-
fallen me, and what might be the result.

Pale, weary, and exhausted, I reached my lodgings be-
tween three and four o'clock of the morning of the seven-
teenth day from that in which I had left it in joy and hope.
After I had knocked, and was answered, my landlady al-
most fainted at the sight of me. She had believed me
dead ; and my appearance was not calculated to do away
the impression, I looked so ghastly from anxiety and the
want of sleep. Her joy was extreme when she found her
mistake. I undressed and threw myself on my bed, where
I soon fell into a sound sleep, the first I had enjoyed since
my involuntary voyage.

I did not awake until about eight o'clock, when I arose
and dressed. I did not haste to Eliza, as my heart urged
me, lest my sudden appearance should have been fatal to
her. I wrote her a note, informing her I was in health
and would call and explain all after breakfast. I sent off
my card, and immediately waited upon my employers.
They were more surprised than pleased at my return.
Another had been placed in my situation, and they did not
choose to pay him off when I might think proper to
return after my unaccountable absence. My soul fired
the base insinuation ; my voice rose as I demanded to know
if they doubted my veracity. With an expression ot coun-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

tenance that spoke daggers, one of them said — " "We doubt
at least, your prudence in going on board an unknown
vessel ; but let us proceed to business — we hare found all
your books correct to a farthing, and here is an order for
your salary, up to your leaving. Good morning !"

I received it indignantly ; and, bowing stiffly, left them.
I was not much cast down at this turn my affairs had taken
so unexpectedly. I had no doubt of finding a warm reception
from Eliza, hurried to her parent's house, and rung the bell
for admittance. Judge my astonishment when her brother
opened the door, with a look as if we had never met, and
inquired what I wanted. The blood mounted to my face —
I essayed to speak ; but my tongue refused its office, I felt
bewildered, and stood more like a statue than a man. In
the most insulting manner, he said — " There is no one here
who wishes any intercourse with you." And he shut the door
upon me.

Of everything that befell me for a length of time, from
this^moment, I am utterly unconscious ; when I again awoke
to consciousness, I was in bed at my lodgings, with my
kind landlady seated at my bedside. I was so weak and
reduced I could scarce turn myself; the agitation I had
undergone, and the cruel receptions I had met on my return,
had been too much for my mind to bear ; a brain fever had
been the consequence, and my life had been despaired of
for several days. I would have questioned my landlady;
but she urged silence upon me, and refused to answer my
inquiries. I soon after learned all. I had been utterly
neglected by those to whom I might have looked for aid or
consolation; but the bitterest thought of all was, that Eliza
should cast me off without inquiry or explanation. I could
not bring my mind to believe she did so of her own accord.
She must, I thought, be either cruelly deceived or under
restraint ; for she and her friends could not but know the
situation I was in. I vainly strove to call my wounded
pride to my aid, and drive her from my thoughts ; but the
more I strove, the firmer hold she took of me. As soon as
I could hold my pen, I wrote to her in the most moving
terms ; and, after stating the whole truth and what I had
suffered, begged an interview, were it to be our last — for my
life or death, I said, appeared to depend upon her answer.
In the afternoon I received one : it was my own letter,
which had been opened, and enclosed in an envelope. The
writing was in her own hand. Cruel woman ! all it con-
tained was, that she had read, and now returned my letter
as of herown accord, and by the approbation of her friends ;
for she was firmly resolved to have no communication with
one who had used her so cruelly, and exposed her to the
ridicule of her friends and acquaintances. This unjust
answer had quite an opposite effect from what I could have
conceived a few hours before : pity and contempt for the
fickle creature took .the place of love ; my mind became
once more tranquil; I recovered rapidly, and soon began
to walk about and enjoy the sweets of summer. I met my
fickle fair by accident more than once in my walks, and
found I could pass her as if we had never met. Her brother
I had often a mind to have horsewhipped ; but the thought
that I would only give greater publicity to my unfortunate
adventure, and be looked upon as the guilty aggressor, pre-
vented me from gratifying my wish.

Glasgow had now become hateful to me, otherwise I
would have commenced manufacturer upon my own account,
as was my intention had I married Eliza. In as short a
period as convenient, I sold off the furniture of the house I
had taken, at little or no loss, and found that I still was
master of a considerable sum. Having made a present to
my landlady for her care of me, I bade a long adieu to
Glasgow, and proceeded by the coach to Leeds, where I
procured a situation in a house with which our Glasgow
house had had many transactions.

As I fear I am getting prolix, I shall hurry over the next

few years I remained in Leeds. I became a partner of the
house ; our transactions were very extensive, more particu-
larly in the United States of America, where we were deeply
engaged in the cotton trade. It was judged necessary that
one of the firm should be on the spot, to extend the business
as much as possible. The others being married men, I at
once volunteered to take this department upon myself, and
made arrangements accordingly. I proceeded towards
Liverpool by easy stages, on horseback, as the coaches at
that period were not so regular as they are at present.

On the second day after my leaving Leeds, the afternoon
became extremely wet towards evening ; so that I resolved
to remain all night in the first respectable inn I came to.
I dismounted, and found it completely filled with travellers,
who had arrived a short time before. It was with consider-
able difficulty I prevailed upon the hostess to allow me to
remain. She had not a spare bed ; all had been already
engaged ; the weather continued still wet and boisterous,
and I resolved to proceed no farther that night, whether I
could obtain a bed or not. I, at length, arranged with her
that I should pass the night by the fireside, seated in an -arm-
chair. Matters were thus all set to rights, and supper over,
when a loud knocking was heard at the door. An addi-
tional stranger entered the kitchen where I sat, drenched
with rain and benumbed with cold; and, after many difficul-
ties upon the side of the hostess, the same arrangements
were made for him.

As our situations were so similar, we soon became very
intimate. I felt much interest in him. He was of a frank
and lively turn in conversation, and exceedingly well
informed on every subject we started. A shrewd eccentri-
city in the style and matter of his remarks, forced the
conviction upon his hearers, that he was a man of no mean
capacity ; there was also a restless inquietude in his man-
ner, which gave him the appearance of having a slight shade
of insanity. At one time, his bright black eye was lighted
up with joy and hilarity as he chanted a few lines of some
convivial song. In a few minutes, a change came over him,
and furtive, timid glances stole from under his long dark
eyelashes. Then would follow a glance so fierce that it
required a firm mind to endure it unmoved. These looks
became more frequent as his libations continued ; for he had
consumed a great quantity of liquor, and seemed to me to
be in that frame of mind when one strives in vain to forget
his identity.

The other inmates of the house had long retired, and all
was hushed save the voice of my companion. I felt no
inclination to sleep ; the various scenes of my life were
floating over my mind, as I gazed into the bright fire that
glowed before me, while the storm raged without. My
companion had at length sunk into a troubled slumber;
his head resting upon his hand, which was supported by
the table, and his intelligent face half turned from me.
While I sat thus, my attention was roused by a low, indis-
tinct murmuring from the sleeper : he was evidently dream-
ing— for, although there were a few disjointed words here
and there pronounced, he still slept soundly.

Gradually his articulation became more distinct and hi*
countenance animated; but his eyes were closed. I becamt
much interested ; for this was the first instance of a dreamei
talking in his sleep, I had ever witnessed. I watched him,
A gleam of joy and pleasure played around his well-formed
mouth, while the few inarticulate sounds he uttered resem-
bled distant shouts of youthful glee. Gradually the tones
became connected sentences ; care and anxiety, at times,
came over his countenance ; in heart-touching language, he
bade farewell to his parent and the beloved scenes of his
youth ; large drops of moisture stole from under his closed
eyelids. The transitions of his mind were so quick that
it required my utmost attention to follow them ; but I never
heard such true eloquence as came from this dreamer. I

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

J26

had seen most of the performers of our modern stage, and
appreciated their talents; but what I at this time witnessed,
in the actings of genuine nature, surpassed all their efforts.
Gradually the shades of innocence departed from his
countenance ; his language became adulterated by slang
phrases, and his features assumed a fiendish cast that made
me shudder. He shewed that he was familiar with the
worst of company ; care and anxiety gradually crept over
his countenance; he had (it seemed) commenced a system of
fraud upon his employers, and been detected ; grief and
despair threw over him their frightful shadows ; pale and
dejected, he pleaded for mercy, for the sake of his father,
in the most abject terms. He now spoke with energy and
connection — it was to his companions in jail ; but hope had
fled, and a shameful death seemed to him inevitable.

His trial came on. He proceeded to court — his lips ap-
peared pale and parched — a convulsive quiver agitated the
lower muscles of his face and neck — he seemed to breathe
with difficulty — his head sank lower upon the hand that
supported it — he had been condemned — he was now in his
solitary cell — his murmurs breathed repentance and devo-
tion— his sufferings appeared to be so intense that large
drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead — he was en-
gaged with the clergyman, preparing for death. Remem-
bering what I had suffered in my own dreams, I resolved
to awake him ; and, to do so, gave the arm that lay upon
the table, a gentle shake. A shudder passed over his frame,
and he sank upon the floor.

All that I have narrated had occurred in a space of time
remarkably short. I rose to lift him to his seat, and make
an apology for the surprise I had given him; but he was
quite unconscious. The noise of his fall had alarmed the
landlady, who, with several of the guests, entered as I was
stooping with him in my arms, attempting to raise him. I
was so much shocked when I found the state he was in,
that I let him drop, and recoiled back in horror, exclaiming,
" Good God ! have I killed him ! Send for a surgeon." The
idea that I had endeavoured to awake him in an improper
time, came, with strong conviction, upon me, and forced
the words out of my mouth.

They raised him up and placed him on his seat. I could
not offer the smallest assistance. Every effort was used to
restore him, in vain, and a surgeon sent for ; but life had
fled. During all this time, I had remained in a stupor of
mind ; suspicion fell upon me that I had murdered him ; I
nad been alone with him, and seen stooping over the body
when they entered; and my exclamation at the time, and
my confusion, were all construed as sure tokens of my
guilt. I was strictly guarded until a coroner's inquest could
be held upon the body.

I told the whole circumstances as they had occurred; but
my narrative made not the smallest impression. I was not
believed — an incredulous smile, or a dubious shake of the head,
was all that I obtained from my auditors. I then kept silence,
and refused to enter into any further explanation, conscious
that my innocence would be made manifest at the inquest,
which must meet as soon as the necessary steps could be
taken. I was already tried and condemned by those around
me — every circumstance was turned against me, and the
most prominent was, that I was Scotch. Many remarks
were made, all to the prejudice of my country, but aimed
at me ; my heart burned to retort their unjust abuse; but I
was too indignant to trust myself to utter the thoughts that
swelled my heart almost to bursting.

The surgeon had come, and was busy examining the
body of the unfortunate individual, when a new traveller
arrived. He appeared to be about sixty years of age, of a
pleasing countenance, which was, however, shaded by
anxiety and grief. Sick and weary of those around me, I
had ceased to. regard them ; but I raised my eyes as the new
comer entered; and was .at once struck by a strong resem-

>lance, as I thought, between him and the deceased. The
stranger appeared to take no interest in what was going on;
)ut urged the landlady to make haste and procure him some
refreshment, while his horse was being fed. He was in the
utmost^ hurry to depart, as important business required his
inmediate attendance in London. The loquacious landlady
breed him to listen to a most exaggerated account of the
lorrid murder which the Scotchman had committed in her
louse. The story was so much distorted by her inventions,
that I could not have recognised the event, if the time and
place, and her often pointing to me and the bed on which
the body was laid, had not identified it. I could perceive
a faint shudder come over his frame, as she finished her
romance. The surgeon came from his examination of the
body. He was a man well advanced in years, of an intelligent
and benevolent cast of countenance. She inquired with
what instrument the murder had been perpetrated.

" My good lady," said the surgeon, " I can find no marks
of violence upon the body, and I cannot say whether the
individual met his death by violence or the visitation of
God."

" Oh, sir," cried the hostess, " I am certain he was
murdered; for I saw them struggling on the floor as I
entered the room, and he said, himself, that he had mur-
dered him."

" Peace, good woman," said the surgeon, who turned to
me, and requested to know the particulars from myself;
" for I am persuaded" (he continued) " that no outward
violence has been sustained by the deceased."

I once more began to narrate to him the whole circum-
stance. As I proceeded with the dream, the stranger sud-
denly became riveted in his attention; his eyes were fixed
upon me ; the muscles of his face were strangely agitated,
as if he was restraining some strong emotion ; wonder and
anxiety were strongly expressed by turns, until I mentioned
one of the names I had heard in the dream. Uttering a
heart-rending groan or rather scream, he rose from hia
seat and staggered to the bed, where he fell upon the inani-
mate body, and sobbed audibly as he kissed the cold fore-
head, and parted the long brown hair that covered it.

" Oh, Charles," he cried, " my son, my dear lost son !
have I found thee thus, who wast once the hope and stay of
my heart !"

There was not a dry eye in the room after this burst of
agonised nature. He rose from the bed and approached
me. Looking mildly in my face, he said —

" Stranger, be so kind as continue your account of this
sad accident ; for both our sakes, I hope you are innocent of
any violence' upon my son."

Overcome by his manner, in kindness to him, I suggested
that it would be better were only the surgeon and himself
present at the recital. Several of those present protested
loudly against my proposal, saying I would make my escape
if I was not guarded. My anger now rose — I could restrain
myself no longer — I cast an indignant glance around, and,
in a voice at its utmost pitch, dared any one present to say
I had used violence against the unfortunate young man. All
remained silent. In a calmer manner, I declared I had no
wish to depart, urgent as my business was, until the inquest
was over; and, if they doubted my word, they were wel-
come to keep strict watch at the door and windows.

The old man perceived the kindness of my motive for
withdrawing with him, and his looks spoke his gratitude as
we retired.

I once more stated every circumstance as at had occurred
from the time of his son's arrival, until he fell from the
chair. As I repeated the words I could make out in the
early part of the dream, his father wept like a child, and
said — " "Would to God he had never left me!" When I
came to the London part, he groaned aloud and wrung h
hands. I was inclined more than once to stop ; but he

126

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

motioned me to proceed, while tears choked his utterance.
When I had made an end, he clasped his hands, and, raising
his face to heaven, said — " I thank Thee, Father of mercies !
Thy will be done. He was the last of five of Thy gifts. I am
now childless, and have nothing more worth living for, hut
to obey Thy will. I thank Thee, that, in his last moments,
it can be said of him as it was of thy apostle — ( Behold, he
prayeth !' "

For some time we remained silent, reverencing the old
man's grief. The surgeon first broke silence: — " Stranger,"
he said, " I have not a doubt of your innocence of any inten-
tion to injure the person of the deceased ; but your humane
intention to awaken him was certainly the immediate cause
of his death ; for, had you tried to rouse him from sleep,
either sooner or later in his dream, all might have been
well. The gentle shake you gave his arm, in all likeli-
hood, was felt as the fatal fall of the platform or push of the
executioner, which caused, from fright, a sudden collapse of
the heart, that put a final stop to the circulation, and caused
immediate death. We regret it ; but cannot say there was
any bad intention on your part."

I thanked the surgeon for the justice he had done me in
his remarks ; and then, addressing the bereaved father, I
begged his forgiveness for my unfortunate interference with
his son ; I only did so to put a period to his dream, as his
sufferings appeared to me to be of the most acute description.

He stretched out his hand, and, grasping mine, which he
held for some time, while he strove to overcome his emo-
tions, he at length said —

" Young man, from my heart I acquit you of every evil
intention, and believe you from evidence that annot be
called in question. What you have told coincides ydth facts
I already possess. For some time back the conl .-' o:
Charles gave me serious cause of uneasiness ; "but 1 knew
not half the extent of his excesses, although his requests
for money were incessant. I supplied them, as far as was
in my power; for he accompanied them with dutiful ac-
knowledgments and plausible reasons. Until of late,
had fulfilled his every wish ; but I found I could no longer
comply with prudence. Alas ! you have let me at length
understand that the gaming table was the gulf that swal-
lowed up all. I had for some time resolved to go person-
ally, and reason with him upon the folly of his extravagan-
ces ; but, unfortunately, delayed it from day to day and
week to week. I felt it to be my duty as a parent ; but my
heart shrunk from it. Fatal delay ! Oh ! that I had done as
my duty urged me!" (Here his feelings overpoweredhim for
a few minutes.) " Had I onVy gone, even a few days before
I received that fatal letter that at once roused me from my
guilty supineness," (here he drew a letter from his pocket
and gave it me,) " he might have been saved ! Read it."

I complied. It was as follows :—

WORTHY FRIEND, — " I scarce know how to communi-
cate the information ; but, I fear, no one here will do so in
so gentle a manner. Your son, Charles, I am grieved to say,
has not been acting as I could have wished, for this some
time back. One of the partners called here this morning to
inquire after him, as he had absconded from their service on
account of some irregularity that had been discovered in his
ffash entries, and made me afraid, by his manner, that there
might be something worse. Do, for your own and his sake
come to town as quickly as possible. In the meantime, ]
shall do all in my power to avert any evil that may threaten
—Adieu ! JOHN WALKER."

" I was on my way," he proceeded, " to save my poor
Charles from shame, had even the workhouse been my onlj
refuge at the close of my days. Alas ! as he told in hi
dream, I fear he had forfeited his life by that fatal act
forgery, for which there is no pardon with man. If so, th
present dispensation is one of mercy, for which I bless His
name, who in all things doeth right.

My heart ached for the pious old man. We left the
room, he leaning upon my arm. The surgeon and parent
both pronounced me innocent of the young man's death.
Those who still remained in the house, more particularly
the hostess, appeared disappointed, and did not scruple to
hint their doubts. Until the coroner's inquest sat, winch
was in the afternoon, the father of the stranger never left
my side, but seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in con-
versing about his son. The jury, after a patient investiga-
tion, returned their verdict, " Died by the visitation of
God."

I immediately bade farewell to the surgeon and the parent
of the young man, and proceeded for Liverpool, musing upon
my strange destiny. It appeared to me that I was haunted
by some fatality, which plunged me constantly into misfor-
tune. I rejoiced that I was on the point of leaving Britain
and hoped that, in America, I should be freed from my bad
fortune.

When I arrived in Liverpool, I found the packet on the
eve of sailing ; and, with all expedition, I made everything
ready, and went on board. We were to sail with the morn-
ing tide. There were a good many passengers ; but all
of them appeared to be every-day personages — all less or
more studious about their own comforts. After an
agreeable voyage of five weeks, we arrived safe, and all
in good health, in Charleston. In a few months, I com-
pleted our arrangement satisfactorily, and began to make
preparations for my return to England again. A cir-
cumstance, however, occurred, which overturned all my
plans for a time, and gave a new turn to my thoughts. Was
it possible that, after the way in which I had been cast off
before by one of the bewitching sex, I could ever do more
than look upon them again with indifference? I did not
hate or shun their company; but a feeling, pretty much
akin to contempt, often stole over me as I recollected my
old injury. I could feel the sensation at times give way
for a few hours in the company of some females, and
again return with redoubled force upon the slightest occa-
sion, such as a single word or look. I was prejudiced and
resolved not again to submit to the power of the sex. But
vain are the resolves of man. This continued struggle, I
really believe, was the reason of my again falling more
violently in love than ever, and that too against my own
will. When I strove to discover faults, I only found per-
fections.

I had boarded in the house of a widow lady who had
three daughters, none of them exceeding twelve years of
age. A governess, one of the sweetest creatures that I had
ever seen, or shall ever see again, had the charge of them.
On the second evening after my arrival, I retired to my
apartment, overcome by heat and fatigue. I lay listlessly
thinking of Auld Reekie, the mysterious murder, and all
the strange occurrences of my past life. My attention was
awakened by a voice the sweetest I had ever heard. I
listened in rapture. It was only a few notes, as the
singer was trying the pitch of her voice, and soon ceased.
I was wondering which of the family it could be who sang
so w ell, when I heard one of the daughters say, " Do
governess, sing me one song, and I will be a good girl all
to-morrow. Pray do !" I became all attention — again the
voice fell upon my ear. It was low and plaintive; the
air was familiar to me ; my whole soul became entranced
— the tear-drop swam in my eyes — it was one of Scotland's
sweetest ditties — " The Broom o' the Cowdenknowes."
No one who has not heard, unexpected, in a foreign land,
the songs he loved in his youth, can appreciate the thrill
of pleasing ecstasy that carries the mind, as it were, out of
the body, when the ears catch the well-known sounds.

.frext day, I was all anxiety to see the individual who
had so fascinated me the evening before. I found her all
that my imagination had pictured her. A new feeling pos-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

127

aessed me. In rain I called pride to my aid ; I could not
drive her from my thoughts. Sleeping or waking, her voice
and form were ever present. I left the town for a time, to
free myself from these unwelcome feelings, pleasing as
they were. I felt angry at myself for harbouring them ;
but all my endeavours were vain — go where I would, I was
with my Mary on the Cowdenknowes.

I know not how it was. I had loved with more ardour
in my first passion, and been more the victim of impulse j
a dreamy sensation occupied my mind, and my whole
existence seemed concentrated in her alone : now, my
mind felt cool and collected — I weighed every fault and
excellence ; still I was hurried on, and felt like one
placed in a boat in the current of a river, pulling hard to
get out of the stream, in vain. I at length laid down my
oars, and yielded to the impulse. In short, I made up my
mind to win the esteem and love of Mary ; nor did I strive
in vain. My humble attentions were kindly received, and
dear to my heart is the remembrance of the timid glances
I first detected in her full black eyes. For some weeks
I sought an opportunity to declare my love. She evi-
dently shunned being alone with me ; and I often could
discern, when I came upon her by surprise, that she had
been weeping. Some secret sorrow evidently oppressed her
mind, and, at times, I have seen her beautiful face suffused
with scarlet, and her eyes become wet with tears, when my
pompous landlady spoke of the ladies of Europe and (l the
true white-blooded females of America." I dreamed not
at this time of the cause ; but the truth dawned upon me
afterwards.

It was on a delightful evening, after one of the most sultry
days in this climate, I had wandered into the garden to
enjoy the evening breeze, with which nothing in these
northern climes will bear comparison ; the fire flies sported
in myriads around, and gave animation to the scene ; the
fragrance of plants and the melody of birds filled the senses
to repletion. I wanted only the presence of Mary to be com-
pletely happy. I heard a low warbling at. a short distance,
from a bower covered with clustering vines. It was Mary's
voice ! I stood overpowered with pleasure — she sung again
one of our Scottish tunes.

As the last faint cadence died away, I entered the arbour;
the noise of my approach made her start from her seat ; she
was hurrying away in confusion, when I gently seized her
hand, and requested her to remain, if it were only for a few
moments, as I had something to impart of the utmost im-
portance to us both. She stood ; her face was averted from
my gaze ; I felt her hand tremble in mine. Now that the
opportunity I so much desired had been obtained, my reso-
lution began to fail me. We had stood thus for some time.

" Sir, I must not stay here longer," she said. " Good
evening!"

" Mary," said I, " I love you. May I hope to gain your
regard by any length of service ? Allow me to hope, and I
shall be content."

" I must not listen to this language," she replied. " Do not
hope. There is a barrier between us that cannot be re-
moved. I cannot be yours. I am unworthy of your regard,
Alas ! I am a child of misfortune."

" Then," said I, ' ' my hopes of happiness are fled for ever.
So young, so beautiful, with a soul so elevated as I know
yours to be, you can have done nothing to render you un-
worthy of me. For heaven's sake, tell me what that fatal
barrier is. Is it love ?"

" I thank you," she replied. " You do me but justice. A

thought ha8 never dwelt upon my mind for which I have

cause to blush ; but nature has placed a gulf between you

nd me, you will not pass." She paused, and the tears

warn in in her eyes.

" For mercy's sake, proceed !" I said.

• There is black blood in these veins" she cried, in agony.

A load was at once removed from my mind. I raised her

hand to my lips :— " Mary, my love, this is no bar. I come

from a country where the aristocracy of blood is unknown,

where nothing degrades man in the eyes of his fellow-man

' but vice."

Why more ? Mary consented to be mine, and we were
shortly after wed. I was blessed in the possession of one
of the most gentle of beings.

We had been married about six or seven weeks, when
business called me from Charleston to one of the northern
States. I resolved to take Mary with me, as I was to go
by sea ; and our arrangements were completed. The vessel
was to sail on the following day. I was seated with her,
enjoying the cool of the evening, when a stranger called and
requested to see me on business of importance. I immedi-
ately went to him, and was struck with the coarseness of
his manners, and his vulgar importance. I bowed, and
asked his business.

" You have a woman in this house," said he, " called
Mary De Lyle, I guess."

" I do not understand the purport of your question," said
I. " What do you mean ?"

t( My meaning is pretty clear," said he. " Mary De Lyle
is in this house, and she is my property. If you offer to carry
her out of the State, I Avill have her sent to jail, and you
fined. That is right a-head, I guess."

"• Wretch," said I, in a voice hoarse with rage, " get out
of my house, or I will crush you to death. Begone !"

I believe I would have done him some fearful injury, had
he not precipitately made his escape. In a frame of mind
I want words to express, I hurried to Mary, and sank upon
a seat, with my face buried in my hands. She, poor thing,
came trembling to my side, and implored me to tell her
what was the matter. I could only answer by my groans.
At length, I looked imploringly in her face :—

" Mary, is it possible that you are a slave ?" said I.

She uttered a piercing shriek, and sank inanimate at my
feet. I lifted her upon the sofa ; but it was long before she
gave symptoms of returning life.

As soon as I could leave her, I went to a friend to ask hia
advice and assistance. Through him, I learned that what I
feared was but too true. By the usages and laws of the State,
she was still a slave, and liable to be hurried from me and sold
to the highest bidder, or doomed to any drudgery her master
might put her to, and even flogged at will. There was only
one remedy that could be applied ; and the specific was
dollars. My friend was so kind as negotiate with the ruf-
fian. One thousand was demanded, and cheerfully paid.
I carried the manumission home to my sorrowing Mary.
From her I learned, as she lay in bed — her beautiful face
buried in the clothes, and her voice choked by sobs — that
the wretch who had called on me was her own father,
whose avarice could not let slip this opportunity of extort-
ing money. With an inconsistency often found in man, he
had given Mary one of the best of educations, and for
long treated her as a favoured child, during the life of her
mother, who was one of his slaves, a woman of colour, and
with some accomplishments, which she had acquired in
a genteel family. At her death, Mary had gone as govern-
ess to the daughters of my landlady ; but, until the day of
her father's claim, she had never dreamed of being a slave.
I allowed the vessel to sail without me, wound up my

have had uninterrupted happiness in her and her offspring.
The slave is now the happy wife and mother of five lovely
children, who rejoice in their mother. After remaining some
years in Leeds, I returned to Edinburgh. Widow Neil was
dead ; but one day I discovered, by mere chance, that the
murder I committed in her house was on a sheep.

128

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

A SCRAP OF THE REBELLION.

A PERSON of the name of Andrew Forbes, who lived in
the town of Perth, was very zealous in the cause of the
Pretender, and had been so successful in obtaining recruits
for Lord Perth, that he was elevated to the rank of sergeant
in the regiment raised by that nobleman. Forbes was by
trade a common shoemaker ; but, as he himself used often to
say, he was either blessed or cursed with a spirit above his
calling ; for his restlessness and ambition prevented him
from taking the advice of the old Latin poet, and adhering
to his last — while his poverty, and want of education and
friends, allowed of no possibility of escaping from the humble
condition in which he was placed. The affair of the Rebel-
lion was to him a species of godsend, as it was one of those
disruptive movements of the spirit of strife and ambition,
which often reverse the fortunes of men, and turn society
upside down — reducing rich men to beggary, and raising
the poor, from their humble seats, to the high places
of the great. To a man that could not be lower than
he was, and who wished to be higher, it presented
an opportunity of bettering his fortune, and affording food
for his ambition, which was not to be overlooked by such
a person as Andrew Forbes, who entered into the project
with alacrity and high hope, and soon made himself con-
spicuous. When, to join Lord Perth's regiment, he left his
house — a small tenement he had got from his father, and said
to have been used at onetime as a kind of subsidiary prison —
he locked it up, and carried the key with him. It was said
he fought with great spirit and courage at all the engage-
ments in which his regiment took a part ; and, at Culloden,
BO signalized himself, that a price was set on his head, and
diligent search made for him throughout the country. It
was pretty certain that he had evaded, at least for a consider-
able time, all the efforts of his pursuers; but a report was cir-
culated, and believed, that he had been overtaken and slain in
the Pass of Glencoe ; and it was at least certain that a sum of
money was paid by the authorities at Perth for the head of
a man that passed for that of Andrew Forbes. The little
house he used to occupy was not thought worth the trouble
of confiscation, or, at least, it was never looked after by
the officers of the Crown ; and a sister of the name of
Agnes, the widow of a person called John Crighton,
who lived in the Bridge-end, took up her residence in it,
along with four children. She never made up any title to
the little house, as her advisers told her that, if she
made any movement on the ground of right or title, the law
authorities might interfere and deprive her of it altogether.
She occupied the domicile in this way for ten years, by
which time her children had grown up. The neighbours
were in the habit of visiting her ; and often, at night, over
the fire, they used to talk of the rebellion, and of the unfor-
tunate fate of Andrew Forbes, the original proprietor, whose
head had been purchased by the Provost of Perth for a sum
of money, and whose body had been left to be eaten by the
carrion crows of Glencoe — all very stirring incidents, and
capable of forming the material of interesting conversations
during the dark nights of winter, when old women were
the narrators and young persons the auditors. On one oc-
casion, two or three of the neighbours were occupied in
this manner, smoking their pipes by the fire, and contri-
buting, alternately, their little graphic details of the by-
gone times of commotion and disaster, while the young
listeners sat with open mouths, greedily devouring the
wondrous legends, made a thousand times more wonderful
by the inventive fancies of the narrators, and the solemn
effects of a dark night, an apartment filled with smoke, and
the sallow faces of the old women, with their long, sharp
chins, chiming their eldritch responses to the teller of the
legend. The death of the unfortunate Andrew Forbes,
and the fortunes of his head, which, it was said- was denied

Christian burial, formed the most prominent and awful
subject of the conversation. The minuteness of the graphic
details descended to every circumstance connected with the
affair. One of the old women said that she herself saw
Andrew's head taken out of the bag in which it had been
brought from Glencoe. One eye, she said, (munching her
toothless chops,) was open, and the other shut, and the long
black hair, which he used, in that very room, to comb care-
fully every morning, was bound round the stump of the
neck, to stop the blood, or rather to keep the hands of the
authorities, who were to examine it, from being soiled !
Another old woman said that she had been called as a wit-
ness to speak to its being actually the head of Andrew
Forbes, and that she knew it principally from a large mole
which he had under his left eye, and which he used to
reckon a spot of beauty. The sister of Andrew said that
she was from home when the authorities asked her to
examine the head, and that the moment she returned, she
hastened to George Begbie, the principal town-officer at
that time, to ask him to let her see the remnant of her
brother. The officer told her she was too late, as, though
he could very easily shew her the head, she could not
recognise a single feature of the face ; but she insisted upon
seeing it, and was led to one of the back houses adjoining
the court-room, where she saw, lying in a heap, no fewer
than fifty men's heads, all labelled with the names of the
owners. The man, directed by the written name, took up
the head she wanted to see; and, before she was aware of what
she was doing, she had received into her hands the grim relic
One of the eyes (as the other speaker said) was staring open ,
its look was directed towards her, she became frightened,
threw it down among the heap of heads, and flew out of the
house. As these recitals were going forward, the old women
kept smoking their pipes, and the young listeners, bound,
to their seats with terror, were afraid to turn themselves
round, for fear of encountering Andrew Forbes. Meanwhile
the oldest son of the widow, less attentive to the recitals
than the others, was amusing himself with a species o.t
mock latch which was attached to the wall, and the use of
which had often formed a subject of speculation to him,
when, having given it a turn in a certain direction, the
iron door of a press burst open, with a clang which roused
the party at the fire and suspended their tragic tales. What
were the pictures of romantic story-telling to what they
now beheld ! In a small recess, stood, upright, Andrew
Forbes himself, dressed in the very same garb in which he
had fought at Culloden ; his claymore along-side of him, all
his accoutrements complete and entire as they were on the
day when he escaped from the field, and on his shoulders
that identical head about which the old women had been
conversing ! We cannot attempt to describe the feelings
of the party when this dreadful apparition met their eyes.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The recess had, in
former times, been used as a hole for criminals of a deep die,
and was closed by a powerful spring which no one from the
inside could act upon so as to open the door. Andrew Forbes
had returned secretly to his house, and had taken refuge in
the fatal hole ; the spring had done its duty fatally, and the
efforts of the prisoner having failed to liberate him, and no one
having entered a house which was supposed to have been de-
serted, he had died of hunger. His body stood upright in con-
sequence of the narrowness of the recess, which would not
admitof its being doubled or extended. Webelievethis house,
with the hole, was lately to be seen in the town of Perth.

WILSON'S

J^fctotfraJ, aFram'tumarg, an* Etnas

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

A CHRONICLE OF THE DEATH OF JAMES I.

THE scrupulous, we might almost say affected regard for
What they conceive to be historical truth, on the part of
many historians, leading them to admit nothing into their
veritable histories but what has been <f proven," and proven
in such a manner as to please themselves, has been produc-
tive of at least this effect — that many a fact in history has
been consigned to the regions of fable and romance, because
supported only by that evidence which has hanged mil-
lions of God's creatures — viz., the testimony of witnesses.
The weight of tradition, often the very best and truest
evidence, in so far as it combines experience and faith,
is, in the estimation of historiographers, overbalanced by a
fragment of paper, provided it be written upon, and the
writing be formed after some old court-hand, or black,
letter style ; though, after all, the valued antiquarian scrap,
formed by the operation of one goose quill, moved by one
hand, and that hand impelled by the mind of one frail mor-
tal, may be merely a distorted relic of that very tradition
which is so much despised. We do not profess to be
fastidious in the selection of authorities. Tradition, in our
opinion, ought to be tested by the experience of mankind :
where it stands that test, it ought to be received as a part
of veritable history ; and sure we are, that, if by this mode
anything may be thought to be lost in point of strict
truth, it will be well balanced "by what is gained in point
of amusement. It is upon these principles we have se-
lected, and now lay before our readers, an account of a well
known catastrophe of Scottish history, much more full
in its details than any that has yet been offered to the
public.

In the beginning of the winter 1436, Sir Robert Graham
(whose nephew, Patrick Graham, had been married to the
daughter of David, Earl of Strathearn, and who himself bore
that dignity) appeared at the royal residence of Walter
Stuart, Duke of Athol, his kinsman, (the latter being
uncle to Patrick, Earl of Strathearn's wife,) in a state of
disguise. The night was far advanced when he arrived,
and the Duke was called from his bed to see the visiter,
ffho had been for some time under the ban of the stern
authority of his Sovereign James I. The Duke knew well
what was the main object of the Knight, though he was
entirely ignorant of the special intelligence that the latter
had to communicate to him. They met in the large
(vainscoted hall, which, in brighter days, had resounded to
the merry sounds of the wassail of King Robert's sons,
but which, ever since the accession of the reigning King,
had echoed nothing but the sighs and groans of the per-
secuted victims of James* vengeance against all the
relatives and supporters of the unfortunate house of Albany.
The Duke and the Knight were now both old men, though
the former was much in advance of the latter ; they were
both grandfathers — the grandson of the Duke being Sir
Robert Stuart, Chamberlain to the King, and the grandson
of the former being Malise Graham, who had been dis-
inherited of his Earldom of Strathearn, by the unwise
policy of the monarch ; but, old and grey-headed as they
were, they, true to the character of the age in which they
lived, retained that fierce spirit of vengeance which was
12J. VOL. III.

held one of the cardinal virtues of the creed of nobility
and knighthood of that extraordinary period.

As the Duke entered the hall,, which was lighted only
by a small lamp that stood on the oaken table at which
the inhabitants of the castle dined, he required to use well
both his eyes and his ears, obtuse as his external senses had
become by age, before he was apprised of the situation
occupied by the Knight, who, musing over his schemes o>
revenge, did not observe the Duke enter. He was roused
from his reverie by the hand of his old friend, applied by
way of slap to his shoulder, as if for the purpose of wakening
him from sleep — a power that seldom overcomes the .restless
spirit of vengeance.

" The arm of King James," said the Duke, " reaches
farther than mine, and a smaller light than that glimmering
taper that twinkles so mournfully in this ancient hall of the
Stuarts, enables him to see farther than is now permitted
to these old eyes ; and yet you are here on the very borders
of the Lowlands, and within a score miles of the court,
where the enemy of our families holds undisputed sway.
Are you not afraid of the Heading-hill of Stirling, which
still shews the marks of the blood of the murdered Stuarts?"

" I have come from the fastnesses of the north," said
Graham, as he took off his plaid, which was covered •with
snow, to shake it," and exhibited a belt well stored with
daggers and hunting knives — " I have come from my
residence among the eagles, like one of the old grey-headed
birds with which I am become familiar, to warm the cold
blood of a mountain life with some of the warm stream
that nerves the arms of my enemies of the valley."

" Or rather," replied the Duke, smiling, " you have come
to ask an old fox, with a head greyer than that of an eagle,
to hunt with you, and guide you to the caves of your foes ;
but you have destroyed your scheme of vengeance, by
advising your principal enemy of your intention. Why,
speaking seriously, did you write such an epistle to the
King ? You have lived among your grey-headed friends
to little purpose, when you have used one of their feathers
as an instrument for telling your victim that another is to
fledge the arroAV that is to seek his heart's blood. Such an
act may be said to be noble, when the avenger is to give
his enemy a fair chance for his life ; but that you do not
intend to do, for your vengeance (which must be glutted in
secret, if it is to be glutted at all) is not to be staid by the
forms of the laws of chivalry. James is now on his guard.
You have told him you intend to slay him — and slay him
now if you can !"

" And, by the arms of the Grahams of Kincardine, I rvitt,
Athol — I mill, I shall I Is it your Grace who would dissuade
me from my purpose of revenge, merely because the fire is
so furious that it s«nt forth a gleam on the victim that is
destined to feel its scorching heat ? — you, who have within
these few minutes brought up to our burning imaginations,
the bloody scene of the Heading-hill of Stirling, whereon
perished so many of your kinsmen — you, whose Dukedom
has been first wrested from you, and then bestowed on you
in liferent, because you are old — you who should" (here he
spoke intotheear of theDuke) "Peking!" — pausing. " Who
does not know that Robert III., your brother, was born out
of lawful wedlock ? His- father never married Elizabeth

130

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

More ; but who could doubt that Euphemia Ross, your
mother, the widow of the famous Randolph, was joined to
him in lawful wedlock ? The people of Scotland know this,
and they are sick of the bastard on the throne"— pausing
a^ain, and looking earnestly at the Duke through the gloom
of the large hall. " Is it to be tolerated that legitimacy is
to be longer trampled under foot by bastardy ? Too long
have you overlooked your right of blood ; but it is not yet
too late for ample amends. The usurper has done all in his
power, by oppressing you and slaying your friends, to force
you to assert and vindicate your indefeasible right, and
gratify a legitimate revenge. In these veins," seizing the
old man's shrivelled wrist, " runs the blood of I he Bruce !
What a thought is that ! — what heart could resist its im-
pulse ? what brain, its fire ?"

After whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into
the ear of the old Duke, Graham paused again, and looked
at him. The words had produced the effect which they
might have been expected to produce on the mind of one
who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and pur-
poses, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had
been prevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates
of his judgment, the call of his ambition, and the spur of
revenge. The energetic manner in which the old fancies
had been roused by the wily Graham threw him into a
reverie, the result of which the Knight did not think fit to
wait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in
stimulating the lethargy of age, and sending through the
shrivelled veins of the scion of royalty, the blood that
owned the influence of the passion-struck heart : it was now
his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push for
more ; and as the Duke still stood muffled up in his morn-
ing-gown, and his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter
proceeded —

" Your Grace has often declared to me," he continued,
" that you have faith in our Highland seers, and believe
the sounds of the iaisch, as given forth by the inspired
visionary."

" Who can doubt these things ?" replied the old Duke,
looking seriously, and continuing his musing position. "I
certainly never had the hardihood. I have seen too many
instances of their verification to be sceptical on that head.
The fate of the family of Albany, as Chambers will tell you,
was foretold by a seer, many months before the execution
of Duke Murdoch and his sons. But what has this to
do with my persecution, or with my being King of Scotland ?
God knows, I have at this moment visions enough ! — your
remarks have roused my sleeping mind ; yet I could almost
say I dream."

"This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my
presence at this late hour, may well produce an illusion ; but
I deal in no fancies. I have only truths to tell, and deeds
to do — ay, and such deeds as may well cross the rapt eyes
of the seer ; Scotland has not seen such for many a day,
sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings.
Will your Grace hear your fate, from the lips of a seer?"

" I would rather hejvr that of my enemy, who rules this
k'ngdom with a rod of iron," replied the Duke.

" You will hear the fates and fortunes of both," said
Graham — »' ay, even as is seen the scales of justice, which,
as the beam moves, lifts one, only to depress the other. If
you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut, back among
your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in
store for you and King James."

" I will," replied the Duke, anxiously; " but age requires
rest. I was hunting all day, and feel weary. Let us post-
pone our visit till to-morrow evening."

" Ah !" cried Graham, " the hunter may say he is wearied,
but the hunted has no title to speak the language of nature.
If we go at all, we must go norv. The visions of the seer
come on. him during night. At the solemn ho'ur of mid-

night, futurity is revealed to him— to the hunted outlaAV
whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed
the ordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress
— I will lead your Grace's horse through the hills. We have
no time to lose — the old enemy is before-hand with us, and
our grizzled locks mock the tardiness of our revenge. Come!"

" My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words,
Graham," said the old Duke. " Tell Malcolm to get my
horse in readiness ; meanwhile, I will dress, and be pre-
sently with you."

The Duke went up to his bedroom, and Graham sought
the servant, who proceeded to obey his directions. He
came again back to the hall, and, folding his arms, walked
to and fro, muttering to himself, stopping at times, and
raising his hand in a menacing attitude, as if he were
wholly engrossed by one feeling of revenge, and then resum-
ing his musing attitude. The Duke, dressed, belted, anc]
muffled up in a large riding cloak, again roused him from
his reverie. They proceeded to the court-yard, where the
Duke mounted, and Graham, taking the bridle into hia
hand, took the horse away into a by-path that led to the
hills. After proceeding forward for about an hour in the
dark, they observed a small light, glimmering in the dis-
tance, and coming apparently from the window of some
cottage. For this, Graham made as directly as the uneven-
ness of the ground would permit ; and, in a short time, they
arrived at the door of the small dwelling, from the Avindow
of Avhich the beam of light shot out amongst the darkness,
suggesting the idea of life, and probably some of its com-
forts, (at the least, a fire,) amidst the dead stillness of a
winter night in so dreary a situation.

At the door of this cottage, Graham rapped in a peculiar
manner ; and, without a word being spoken, it was opened
by a young man clad in the Highland garb. The two.
friends entered. The scene presented to them was the
ordinary appearance of a mountain hut in those days : a
small fire of peats burned in the middle of the apartment,
and sent out the light which, beaming through the small
aperture in place of a window, had attracted the eyes of
the guests. In a corner, a small truckle-bed, stuffed with
heather, part of which protruded at the side and end, and
covered with a coarse blanket or two, contained an old
woman, with a clear, active eye, which twinkled in the
light of the fire, and moved with great rapidity as she
scanned narrowly the persons of the guests. In another
corner was the bed of the young Highlander, composed
simply of a collection of heather, and without blanket or
covering of any kind. The guests seated themselves on
two coarse stools that stood by the fire ; holding their
hands over the flame, to receive as much as possible of
the heat, to thaw their limbs, which the freezing night
air, co-operating with their advanced years, had stiffened
and benumbed. While they were engaged in this pre-
liminary, but indispensable operation, the young man
who appeared restless and confused, placed another stool
before the bed of the old woman, so that, when seated
upon it, his back would be supported by the side of the
bed, and his face in some degree concealed from the gaze
of the guests, who, being on the other side of the peat fire,
could, through the ascending smoke, see him only indis-
tinctly and at intervals.

With the exception of a few words that had passed
between the young Highlander and Graham — and which,
being in Gaelic, were not understood by the royal Duke,
who, though formerly Lord of Brechin and resident in the
north, had been too long in leaving the royal residence of
his father Robert II. to acquire the language — there was
nothing for some time said. The guests continued their
manual applications to the peat fire, and the young Gael,
who had for some time been seated on h:s stool, threw
himself occasionally back on the fore part of the bed, then

CHRONICLE OF THE DEATH OF JAMES I.

VOL. III. P. 131.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

131

brought himself forward again, and at intervals muttered
quickly some words in Gaelic, accompanied with sounds of
wonder and surprise, from all which he suddenly relapsed
into quietness and silence. While these strange operations
were going on, Graham directed the attention of the Duke
to the uncouth actor, and whispered something in his ear
which had the effect of rousing him, and making him look
anxiously through the smoke, to get a better view of the
strange gestures of the youth. The old woman in the bed,
made, in the meantime, efforts as if she intended to speak ;
but these were repressed by a sudden motion of the youth,
whose hand, slipped back, was applied as secretly as possible
to her mouth, and then, in a menacing attitude, clenched
and shaken in her face.

" Is your hour come yet, Allan ?" said Graham, in a deep
and serious voice.

" He says no/' answered the old woman, with a sharp
clear voice, from the bed, translating the Gaelic response
of the youth ; " but he sees signs o' an oncome."

" Is it to be a mute vision, Allan ?" again said Graham ;
" or see you any signs of a taisch ?"

" He thinks," said the woman again, as translator, " he
will see again the face and feir o' a dead king, wha will
speak wi' sobs and grains o' him wha will come after him,
an' sit in the browden and burniest ha' o' Scone's auld
palace, whar he will be crowned."

Silence again succeeded the clear notes of the woman's
voice ; the young man's movements and gestures recom-
menced ; and the old Duke's attention was riveted by the
strange proceedings which, to an absolute believer in the
powers of the seer, were fraught with intense interest.
The prophetic paroxysm seemed to approach more near :
the body of the seer was bent stiffly back, and leant on the
bed ; his eyes were wide open and fixed upon a mental
object ; his hands were extended forth ; his lips were apart ;
and every gesture indicated that state of the mind when,
under the influence of a rapt vision, it takes from the body
its nervous energy, and leaves the limbs as if under the
power of a trance. He remained in this condition for fully
five minutes ; and then, throAving his arms about, he cried
out some quickly-uttered words in Gaelic, which the old
woman translated into — " It comes ! it comes !" After a
pause of a few minutes, during which the most death-like
silence prevailed throughout the cottage, he began to move
his hands slowly through the air, from right to left, as ii
he Avere following the progress of a passing creation of the
mind ; and, as he continued this movement, he spoke, in a
deep, tremulous voice, with a kind of mournful, singing
cadence, the Gaelic words which were continuously trans-
lated by the old woman.

" There comes slowly, as if frae the womb o' a cloud o
mountain mist, the seim o' a turreted abbey, wi' the tomb
o' the Bruce and the monuments o' other Kings, amang
which a new grave, wi' the moul o' centuries o' rotten
banes lying on its edge, and mixed wi' the skulls o' deac
kings, an' arm-banes that ance bore the sceptre o' Scotland
— It is gane ! — the seim has vanished, and my eye is again
darkened!"

A deep silence succeeded, and lasted for several minutes
The speaker's hands again began to move from right to left
and slowly uttered words again came from his lips !

" The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and shews the
wraith o' a gowd-graithit bier, movin to the veast ; the
Scotch lion is on the lid, and a shinin halbrik, owre whilk
waves the royal pennon o' Scotland begirt wi' gowd, is car-
ried afore, by the king-at-arms,. A warlock, auld anc
shrivelled, wi' a white beard, touches, wi' his wand, the
coffin, the lid lifts, and the head o' a king, wi' a leaden
crown, rises frae the bier ! A taisch ! a taisch /—hark ! the
lips o' the dead open and move, and he speaks the weirc
»hat never deceives ! < Hail, JVa-'fer, Kins o' the Scots !' "

This extraordinary statement was accompanied by a kind
)f yell or scream, that rung through the cottage and pierced
he ears of the listeners. Silence again followed, and
asted several minutes, during which the seer was quiet.
The Duke was apparently entranced, and Graham looked
Bonder and surprise. The seer began again to move his
lands, and speak as before : —

" The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and my eye
ollows the seim o' the royal chair o' Scone, wherein sits" —
^a loud scream of surprise broke from the seer) — " Walter,
Lord o' Brechin that was, Duke o' Athol that is— King o'
Scotland that will be !"

These words were no sooner uttered than the Duke
started^from the stool on which he sat, and shewed strong
indications of surprise and confusion. His belief in the
predictions of a seer was, as was common in that age,
unbounded ; and, when he heard himself pronounced King
of Scotland, his mind, freed from all manner of scepticism
or doubt, reverted to the circumstance of the doubtful
legitimacy 01* his half-brothers ; the aspirations and day-
dreams he had so long indulged seemed in an instant to
liave received the stamp of truth ; the prospect of having
his ambition at last gratified, by wearing the croAvn which
bis enemy now bore, inflamed his mind, and the coldness
and lethargy of old age seemed to have been supplanted by
the fire and energy of youth

" Is the vision complete ?" said he to the old woman, as
he saw the seer gradually regaining his upright position,
and resuming his natural manner, like one who had come
out of a fit.

"Ay," replied she. " Allan is himsel again; but, if ye
are the Duke o' Athol, as I tak ye to be, I could rede ye.
before our reddin, never mair, aiblins, to meet on this side
o' time, something that wad make your auld cen glimmer
through the smeik o' that ingle mair swith and deftly than
could a' the visions o' the seers o' Scotland."

Graham looked alarmed at this unexpected speech of the
old woman ; and Allan, the seer, slipping gently his hand
behind his back, stopped her mouth, and produced silence.
The Duke and Graham left the cottage — the latter exhibit-
ing a wish that the former should not remain longer, ai'ter
the object was attained for which they had made their
visit. They returned in the same way they had come ; and
for some time the Duke was so much occupied with the
thoughts of the extraordinary vision he had got declared to
him, that he rode forward, still led by Graham, without
uttering a -word. The night was, if possible, darker than it
was when they left the castle ; and the stillness of a lazy
fall of snow reigned among the hills, unbroken by a single
sound, even of the night-birds.

" It is then ordained above," said the Duke at last, in a
low tone — " my lot is already cast among the destinies, and
all the dreams of a long life are at last to be realized,
can scarcely believe that I have been awake for this last
hour; yet what can be more certain, than that I am now
suffering the cold of these hills, a bodily feeling which
dreams cannot simulate ? ' Walter, King of Scotland !'
Ha ! it sounds as well as James — we are both the first of
our name. It is tardy justice, but it is justice accompanied
by retribution ; and when is the blood too thin and cold to
feed the fire of revenge ? When do the pulses of the old
heart cease to quicken at the thought of a just retribution ?
When is the hp-ad too bald to bear a crown lined with
purple velvet? My spirits, frozen by age and this cold
night, are thawed by the fire of these visions of vengeance,
and dance in the wild array of youthful delight. Ha ! he took
from me the fee of my dukedom, and gave me, because I was
old, the usufruct, the'liferent : I shall now have the usufruct
of a kingdom— his kingdom by courtesy, mine by right.
Hark, Graham ! How is this vision to be realized ?
seer pointed to James' death— who is to kill the tyrant ?

132

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"I with this hand shall strike the blow," replied Graham —
" my plans are already laid, and I wanted only your co-
operation and assistance ; for why, you know, should I be
so improvident as to kill one king, until another is ready to
take his place ?"

" I cannot speak lightly of this affair," said the Duke, in
check of Graham's levity. " What are your plans ? The
fewer co-operators in a conspiracy the better."

"I know it," replied Graham. "Your grandson, Sir
Robert Stuart, whom James has foolishly retained as
Chamberlain, while he has taken from him his chance of
succeeding you in your Dukedom, waits for your command
to give us access to the royal chamber. The King is to
celebrate the Christmas holidays at the monastery of the
Dominicans in Perth ; he comes to the point of our dagger,
held by a hand nerved by a thousand wrongs, to plunge it
into his bosom. I can command the services of Sir John
Hall, and Christopher and Thomas Chambers, who cry
for revenge for the murder of their master Albany ; three
hunder katherans are at my service, ready to do the work
of death at my bidding ; and all that was required to com-
plete my schemes, was the consent of your Grace, no^
happily obtained, to the act which is to right you, to revenge
you, to crown you."

" If the King is to be at Perth," replied the Duke, after
a pause, " I shall be at the revels of Christmas. My grand-
son Sir Robert, who, as Chamberlain, may be said to be the
keeper of the King, can let your three hundred katherans
into the monastery, and the work may be finished with a
facility which seldom attends the execution of the purposes
of revenge."

" Your Grace has anticipated my very thoughts and
words," replied the wily Graham. " Heaven aids the work
of a just retribution on the head of the tyrant. Mark the
supernatual coincidences. When was the vision of the seer
presented to the living senses of the avenger of his own
and his country's wrongs — the executioner of a tyrant, and
the successor who is to occupy his throne — as if to urge
them to their duty? When did the groaning victims of
royal cruelty get a chamberlain to turn for them the key
of the tyrant's sleeping room? And when were the suspicions
of remorse and guilt of the wrongd oer so opportunely lulled
as to give room to a confidence which brings him to the
dagger's point ?"

" Walter, King of Scotland !" ejaculated the Duke . who,
during Graham's speech, had been musing over the sudden
change in his fortunes. " Ha ! how many acts shall I have
to repeal ! how many nobles to right ! how many wounds
to bind up of my bleeding country ! Graham, you shall be
Earl of Menteith, and your grandnephew, Malise, shall have,
instead of that Earldom, his own Strathearn. How my
mind burns with the thoughts of turning wrong into right,
and taking the weight of the royal sceptre out of the
jcales of justice !"

By this time, the pair had arrived again at the palace of
Athol. Their plans were completed : the Duke retired to
dream of his crown and sceptre, and Graham returned to
seek a heather bed, in his retreat, beyond the reach of his
enemies.

Some time after, he met Allan the seer, whose surname was
Mackay, among the hills. The Gael had apparently gone in
quest of his employer, and seemedto have some important ob-
ject to attain, by travelling so far as he had done to meet him.

" I peg your Honour's pardon/' said the seer, as he came
up to Graham ; ' te katherans are to pe at the red stane
in te howe o' te hills, on te saxth. I hae seen a' te praw
fallows, wha are as keen for te onset as te eagles o'
Shehallion. Ye will meet them, dootless, and keep up the
fire o' their pluid, pe te three grand powers — te speeches, te
peat-reek, and te pay. Hoo did I manage te Duke ? Te
play was weel played, your Honour, though Allan Mackay ,

pe te man wha says it ; and te mair s my credit, that 1
never pefore acted te seer in presence o' te son o' a king.
Ugh — ugh ! put it was a praw performance, and ane that
deserves to pe weel paid for. Hoo muckle did your Honou
promise to gie me for my remuneration ? Te sum has
clean escaped my memory."

" It was five merks, Allan," said Graham.

" I Peg your pardon, your Honour," said Allan. " It was
shust exactly seven ; and little aneugh, seein I had my
mither's mouth to keep close, for fear she wad peach tc
secret to te Duke, pesides te grand story o' Dumferlin
Appey, and te funeral, and te taisch, and te Palace o' Scone,
to invent and perform. King Shames's actors are petter
paid for performin his ' Peebles to te Play.' Maybe your
Honour can pay me te seven merks shust now?"

" I cannot quarrel with you, Allan," said Graham ; " but
our bargain was five. Here's your own sum, however.
Since that night, I have had apprehensions about your
mother's steadfastness. You must watch her, and preveni
her from going from home. Women have been the ruin of
all plots, since the beginning of the world."

" That was shust what I was to speak aboot, next after
the payment your Honour," said Allan. " She's awa owre
the hills already, Cot knows whar."

" What !" cried Graham, in great agitation — " has she
gone away without your knowledge, and without telling
you whither she was going?"

" That's shust the very thing I hae to inform ye o',"
replied the phlegmatic Gael. " Te last time I saw her was
on Wednesday morning, when she was warstlin wi' the
winds that plaw ower te tap o' te hill o' Gary. A glint o'
the risin sun shewed me her red cloak as it fluttered in te
plast, and, in a moment after, a' my powers o' the second
sight couldna discover her. But we've ae satisfaction'
she's no awa to the Duke. Put maybe" (turning up his eye,
slily) " she's awa to King Shames. I would follow her, and
pring her pack, put I require te seven merks I hae got fraa
your Honour, for other necessary occasions, and purposes,
and necessities ; and a pody canna travel in the Lowlands,
whar there's nae heather to sleep on, without pawbees."

"• Death and fury 1" cried the agitated Graham, " are all
my long-meditated schemes of revenge, are the concerted
purposes for cutting off a tyrant and righting a nation, to
be counteracted by the wag of an old woman's tongue ?
Allan," (lowering his voice,) " you must afteryour mother —
dog her through hill and dale, highway and city vennel ;
seize her, by force or guile ; prevent her from seeking the
presence of the King, or those who may have the power of
communicating with him ; and get her back to her cottage,
on the peril of all our lives. Here's money for you," (giving
him a purse,) "and here is a passport to the confidence of Sir
Robert Stuart, the King's Chamberlain, one of our friends,
who will co-operate with you, in preventing her from
approaching the royal presence."

" She's a Lowlander, your Honour," said Allan, putting
the money in his pocket ; " and maybe she's awa to see her
praw freends o' the south, whar she gaes ance a-year, shust
about this time ; put, to oplige, and favour, and satisfy
your Honour, I'll awa doon te Strath o' te Tay ; and, if I
dinna find her wi' her relations in Dundee, there may be
some reason, and occasion, and authority for your Honour's
apprehension, and for my crossin te Tay and te Forth, to
prevent her frae payin her respects to Shames, whilk she
wad think nae mair o' doin than o' speakin in the way she
did to the Duke o' Athol."

" Away — away, then !" cried Graham ; " and remember
that your head's at stake as well as that of the best of us.
So look to yourself."

Graham went away to an appointed place, where he was
to meet Sir John Hall, who was to accompany him to the
meeting of the katherans, and Allan went back to the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

133

cottage, and, taking out some necessaries, proceeded to
Strath Tay. He arrived at the town of Dundee next
evening ; and, having ascertained that his mother had
crossed over to Fife, had no douht that she was away to
Edinburgh, for the purpose of communicating to King
James what she knew of the conspiracy of the north. He,
therefore, also crossed the Tay, proceeded through Fife, and,
after considerable delay, produced by ineffectual inquiries
after an old woman in a red cloak, he arrived in Edinburgh
on the third day after he had set out from his cottage. He
had procured no trace of his mother, and all his wanderings
and searchings through the Scottish metropolis were unavail-
ing— he could neither see her nor hear of her ; and he
therefore resolved to wait upon Sir Robert Stewart, t©
put him on his guard, lest she might, by her cunning,
escape also his notice, and get access to the King by means
of some subtle story told to the usher. He had no difficulty
in getting access to Sir Robert, who was, about that time,
too much occupied with secret messengers from the seat of
the conspiracy in which he had engaged, to hesitate an
instant about consenting to see the Gael, who, he doubted
not, came from Sir Robert Graham, or his grandfather, the
Duke — both, he knew, deeply engaged in the secret affair.
Having been admitted, Allan, as he walked up to the end
of the apartment where Sir Robert was seated, looked
cautiously around ; and, seeing no one near, assumed an at-
titude and demeanour somewhat bolder, but still suited to
the secrecy of his message

" Has your Honour seen an old woman in a red cloak,
apoot the precincts o' the King's residence ?" said he, in a
•whispering tone, as he slipped Graham's token — a piece of
paper with ciphers on it — into Sir Robert's hand.

" Sir Robert has himself written me about that beldam,"
said the Chamberlain. " She is in our secret, I understand —
an extraordinary instance of imprudence, which I must
have explained to me. Meantime, the danger must be
averted. I have not seen her. Have you, sir ?"

" No," answered Allan. " I wish I could get a climpse
o' her. It's te very thing I want. She would never see
te face o' te King, if she ance crossed my path — tamn
her !"

" "What would you do with her ?" inquired the Chamber-
lain, eagerly. " I wish we could get her out of the way.
You know what I mean : a sum of money is of no import-
ance in comparison of security — real, absolute, undoubted
security — from this plague. You understand me ?" And
he touched his sword, to make himself better understood.

"Understand ye ! — ugh, ugh, your Honour," cried the
Gael, " there was nae occasion for touchin te sword ; your
words are
mean'
praw
hag. Eh ! isn't that it, your Honour ?"

" Supposing, but not admitting, that that was my mean-
ing," said the Chamberlain, cautiously, " what would you
say to the proposition?"

"Sayto't, your Honour!" said Allan. "Ugh! ugh!
Let your Honour say te word and pay te remuneration, and
te auld harridan is dead twa hoors after I get a climpse o'
her. Of course," (looking knowingly into the Chamberlain's
face,) " your Honour would protect me till I got to te hills.
Te work itsel is naething — an auld wife's easy killt — it's no
pe tat te remuneration should be measured — it's pe te risk
o' hangin. Was it ten merks your Honour said ?"

" I did not mention any sum," said the Chamberlain ;
" but you may have twenty, if you relieve us of this fear
in the manner you have yourself mentioned."

« Ten in hand, I fancy," said the Gael—" word for word,
your Honour. If I trust you ten merks, you may trust me
te trifle o' killinan auld wife— a mere pagatelle — 1 hae killt
twenty shust to please te Wolf o' Padenoch's son, Duncan."

" But do you know the woman ?" said the Chamberlain.
" I think I do," answered Allan. " There's nae fear o'
a mistake ; put, if I should kill ae auld wife for anither,
whar's te harm? The right ane can easily be killt after-
wards."

The importance of being entirely relieved from the dan-
ger that thus impended over the heads of the conspirators,
was very apparent to Sir Robert Stuart. He knew well
the character of James : a hint was often sufficient for him ;
and the statement of a woman, if it quadrated with known
facts and suspicions, would be believed ; inquiry would
follow ; one ^f'act would lead to another, and the whole
scheme be laid open. He, therefore, eagerly closed with
Allan's offer ; the ten merks were paid, and it was agreed
upon that the murderer should receive his other ten merks,
as well as harbourage and protection, upon satisfying the
Chamberlain that the deed was executed. Well pleased at
having made so easily a sum of considerable magnitude in
those days, Allan went to look for his mother — not, it may
readily be conceived, for the purpose of killing her, but
simply with the view of getting her out of the way, until
the King had set off for Perth, which he understood he
would do in a few days.

He wandered round the skirts of the town, musing on
his good fortune, looking at the novelties that presented
themselves to his view, and keeping a sharp eye for a red
cloak. In this way, he past the time, until the grey of the
twilight; when, as he sauntered along the foot of the Gallon
Hill, he saw, lying in a sequestered spot, his aged parent,
wrapped up in her red cloak, and apparently in a sound
sleep, into which she had, in all likelihood, fallen, from the
excessive fatigue to which she had been exposed in her
long journey to the metropolis. The affection of the son
produced only an involuntary sigh, and a musing attitude
of a few moments. He hastened to the residence of the
Chamberlain ; and, as he passed the door of a flesher who
was killing sheep, ran in, and, without saying a word,
dipped his sword in the blood, and then proceeded on his
way. He got instant admittance to his employer, who
was sitting alone, occupied by the thoughts of the mighty
and dangerous enterprise on which he had entered. Slip-
ping up to him, with an air of great secrecy, he stood before
him: —

" She's dead," said Allan, looking into the face of Graham,
with an expression of countenance in which triumph and
cunning were strangely blended.

" You are a most expeditious workman," replied the
Chamberlain ; " but where is the evidence of our being
freed from this plague ?"

" Will her heart's pluid satisfy ye ?" replied Allan, hold-
ing up the sword covered with tbe sheep's blood. " Waur
evidence has hanged a shentleman before noo. Ye ken
there's twa kinds o' pluid in the human body — a red and a
plack : the ane comes frae flesh wounds o' the skean dhu
when its bashfu and winna gang far ben, and the other
follows the plow o' the determined dirk when it seeks the
habitation o' life in te heart itsel. Does yer Honour ken
the difference? What say ye to that?" — shewing him the
sword. " I'm sure ye never saw ponnier plack pluid i' the
heart o' a courtier o' King Shames."

" You are getting ironical in your probation," said the
Chamberlain. " I'm no judge of the difference of veinous
and arterial blood ; but, if I were, how am I to be satisfied
that this is the life-stream of the old woman ?"

" Nae other auld plack teevel could hae kept it sae lang
in her gizzard," replied the Gael ; " put I'm no limited, to
this evidence. An honest man's like gowd — he rejoices in
the fiery furnace. I'll shew ye the pody o' the treacher-
ous hag hersel, wlia would hae sent us a' to the head o' her
clan, Satan, if I hadna peen before-hand wi' her. She lies on
the Calton yonder as quietly as if she were in the Greyfriars;

134

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

and if your Honour wifl accompany me, ye may satisfy yer-
sel o' the absolute truth and verity o' my statement."

" The dead body cannot be long there/' answered Sir
Robert, " without being discovered ; and by approaching
the spot we may subject ourselves to suspicion, especially
if you were previously seen hounding about the place."

" Ugh ! ugh ! Is that a' your Honour kens o' a Gael's pru-
dence ?" replied Allan. " Think ye I wanted to let your
Edinburghers see how neatly we Gaels can strike pelow
the fifth rib ? Na ! I was working for te ten merks, and te
salvation o' mysel, your Honour, and Sir Robert Graham ;
and if the auld witch hersel wasna inclined to spake o' the
affair, it didna pecome me to say a single word. She took
it as quietly and decently as I'll receive the ten merks (and
whatever mair my expedition merits) frae the hands o' yer
Honour. Put the night's fain, and there's nae danger in
looking at the pody o' a dead wife. Come, your Honour, and
trust to me for your guide."

The Chamberlain, pleased with the issue of his negociation,
was, notwithstanding, fully aware of the danger to which he
was exposed by his connection with the murderer. He hesi-
tated about examining the evidence of the murder ; but how
otherwise could he have any faith in the statement of the
Highlander? and his peace of mind as well as the safety of
his colleagues would repay the slight risk he ran in taking
a cursory view of the body of the murdered woman. He
resolved, therefore, on accompanying Allan to the spot ; and
having requested the Gael to go before, he secretly followed
him, until he saw his guide stop, and point with his finger to
the spot where his mother lay. Still under an alarm, which
the increasing gloom might have in some measure allayed,
he walked irresolutely forward, and having seen the body
of the woman, wrapped up in the red cloak, lying extended
on the ground, he had not the slightest doubt that she was
dead, having been killed by the stern Gael. He instantly
retreated ; and, having waited for the approach of Allan,
paid him twenty merks, (being ten in addition,) and re-
quested him to fly with all expedition to the Highlands.
Allan received the money, counting it with a nonchalance
which surprised the Chamberlain ; and, bidding him good
night, walked away to waken his mother and take her to a
warm bed, while the other went home, delighted that this
great danger had been so easily averted.

Some days afterwards, the King and Queen set out for
Perth — Sir Robert Stuart, now freed from all alarm, hav-
ing preceded them, for the purpose of making the necessary
preparations at Dundee for the reception of his royal master
and mistress, and for their journey along the north bank of the
Tay to Perth. The royal party arrived at Leith about twelve
o'clock of the day, for the purpose of embarking in a yacht,
which was to carry them across the Forth. A large assem-
blage of people was present, collected from Edinburgh and
Leith, to see the embarkation ; among whom the courtiers,
dressed in their gay robes, were conspicuous — as well from
their dresses as the air of authority they assumed, on an
occasion which some of them might suspect was to be the
last in which their monarch would ever require their at-
tendance. The sounds of the carriages and horses, of a
tumultuous crowd, and of those actually engaged in the
embarkation — with the crushing of anxious spectators,
and the efforts of the military to produce order, and make
room for the progress of the party towards the yacht — pro-
duced the confusion generally attending such a scene. The
Queen had been escorted forward to the side of the vessel,
and been assisted on board ; and the King was on the eve
of taking the step which was to remove him from the pier
into the yacht, when an old woman, wrapped in a red cloak,
rushed forward, and, holding up two spare, wrinkled arms
in the face of the monarch, cried, in a wild and prophetic
manner—

" James Stuart, receive this warning ! It is not made

in vain, however it may be received. If you cross the
Scottish sea, betwixt and the feast o' Christmas, you will
never come back again in life."

Having said these words, she waved her hands and dis-
appeared. Struck with her solemn and impressive manner,
and her extraordinary appearance, James started, and stood
for a moment mute. Recollecting himself, he called out to
a knight to follow, and question her. He obeyed; but, ere he
could make his way among the crowd, Allan Mackay had
seized his mother, (for such she was,) and hurried her beyond
the reach of the courtiers. The event struck James forcibly.
He concealed it from his Queen ; but, during the passage to
Kirkaldy, he was remarked to be silent and abstracted — a
mood which remained on him during a great part of his
journey. At Dundee, he repaired to the palace, in St
Margaret's Close, where he still meditated secretly on the
strange warning, and compared it with the denunciation
and threat contained in the letter he had some time before
received from Sir Robert Graham. After retiring to his
chamber, he sent for Sir Robert Stewart, to commune with
him on matters of importance. The message alarmed the
guilty Chamberlain, who conceived that the conspiracy oi
the north had been discovered, in spite of his murderous
effort to conceal it, by the death of the Highland woman.
He repaired to the presence chamber, trembling, and full
°f fearful anticipations.

"Sir Robert," said the King, as the Chamberlain approached
him, '' J. am filled with gloomy apprehensions of a violent
death, that will prevent me from recrossing the Forth.
Have you heard anything of late of my bitter foe Graham,
who has denounced me ? Are you certain he is not hatching
against me some bloody conspiracy in these fastnesses of
the north ?"

The question went to the heart of the conspirator. He
gave up all for lost, and guilt supplied all that was awant-
ing in the King's speech to fix upon him the reproach of
plotting against the life of his Sovereign. Happily, James
did not observe his agitation, having relapsed, after his
question, into the gloomy despondency in which he had, for
several days, been iinmerged. All the resolution of the
guilty man was required to enable him to utter a solitary
question.

" What reason has your Majesty," he said, " for enter-
taining these fears, apparently so unfounded ?"

" I have been warned," replied the King, in a deep voice
— " surely by a messenger from Heaven. As I stood on
the pier of Leith, ready to step into the yacht, a strange
woman, muffled up in a red cloak, approached me, and,
holding out her hands, warned me against crossing the
Forth, and said that, if I did, I would never come back
alive. Her manner was supernatural, her voice hollow and
grave-like. She disappeared, and, notwithstanding the efforts
of my messengers to seize her, could nowhere be found
I cannot shake this vision from my mind. Every one
knows that I despise superstitious fears ; but that very
circumstance makes my gloom and despondency the more
remarkable."

This speech struck another chord in the mind of the
guilty courtier. No doubt had remained in his mind, that
the old woman in the red cloak, mentioned by Sir Robert
Graham, had been by his orders killed ; he had seen her
blood on the fatal sword, ai.d he had seen her body lying
lifeless on the ground. Who, then, was this second old
woman in the red cloak, that had made such a fearful
impression upon the King? Had Heaven not taken up
arms against him, jind reincorporated the departed spirit of
the murdered woman, for the purpose of her humane object
being still attained.^ Had not the King himself, the most
dauntless of men, said the figure was supernatural ? And,
above all, was it not certain that there was a just occasion
for the interposition of Providence when one of the rulers

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

135

^f the earth, who have often been protected by Heaven,
*vas about to fall a victim to a cruel purpose, in which he
himself was engaged ? These thoughts passed through his
mind with the rapidity of light, and struck his heart with a
remorse and fear which made him quake. James looked
at him with surprise ; hut attributed his agitation to the
strange tidings he had communicated regarding the supposed
supernatural visitation. Relieved, however, from the fear
of personal danger produced by the King's first announce-
ment, the guilty Chamberlain endeavoured to shake off his
superstitious feelings, and, summoning all his powers, con-
trived to put together a few sentences of vulgar scepticism,
recommending to the King not to allow the ravings of a
maniac (as the old woman undoubtedly was) to disturb his
tranquillity, or interfere with his sound and philosophical
notions of the government of the universe.

The King proceeded to Perth, and subsequently over-
came the feeling of apprehension and despondency produced
by the supposed apparition ; and the Chamberlain got again
so completely entoiled in the details of his conspiracy, that
the affair passed from his mind also.. By the time the festivi-
ties of Christmas came to be celebrated, '-the apprehensions
of evil had died away, just in proportion as the real danger
became every day more to be dreaded. The power of the
Chamberlain was now exercised vigorously, and with ill-
merited success. He contrived to gain over to his side
many of the royal guards ; while Sir Robert Graham was not
less successful in his organization of the external forces,
composed of wild and daring katherans, ready, on being
let into the palace, to spread death and desolation wherever
they came. Meanwhile, the Duke of Athol dreamed his
day-dream of royalty, and indulged in all the intoxicating
visions of state and power which he thought were on the
point of being realized. Yet the conspiracy was confined
to a very few influential individuals — the Duke himself,
Graham, Stewart, Hall, and Chambers, being almost the
only persons, of any distinction or authority, who had been
asked to join the bold enterprise ; and these, it is supposed,
would not have ventured on the scheme, had they not been
blindfolded by personal cravings of insatiable revenge
which prevented all prudential calculations of consequences

As the revels approached, the Chamberlain took care to
prevail upon the King to send an invitation to those of the
conspirators who were considered to be so much in fa-
vour at court as to be entitled to that mark of the royal
favour, while especial care was also taken to get the invita-
tions to the real friends of the King so distributed that there
s'hould, on the night intended for the murder, be collected
in the monastery as few as possible .of the latter, and as
many of the former as the King could be prevailed upon to
invite. There would thus be insidious enemies within, at
the head of whom would be the Duke of Athol ; and fierce
foes without, led by the furious and blood-thirsty Graham,
to the latter of whom, by the bribing of the guards, a free
passage would be opened to the sleeping apartment of the
King, where the bloody scene was intended to be acted in
presence of the Queen.

It was on the night of the 20th of February that the
conspirators had resolved to execute their work of death.
All things were carefully prepared : wooden boards were
placed across the moat which surrounded the monastery,
to enable the conspirators to pass unknown to the warders,
who were placed only at the entrances; and the extraordinary
precaution was taken by the Chamberlain, to destroy the
locks of the royal bedchamber, and of those of the outer
room with which it communicated, whereby it would be
impossible forthose within to securethe doors, and to prevent
the entrance of the party. Meanwhile, in the inside of the
monastery, a gay party was collected, consisting of young
and gallant nobles and knights, and crowds of fair damsels,
dressed ia tb.« glowing colours so much beloved by the

belles of that age. In the midst of this happy group, were
the traitors, Sir Robert Stuart and his aged grandfather
Athol, who looked and smiled upon the scene, while they
knew that, in a few minutes, that presence chamber would",
in all likelihood, be flowing with the blood of the King
who sat beside them, and become, through their means, a
scene of massacre and carnage.

Of all the individuals in the royal presence chamber
on that night, no one was more joyous than the merry
monarch himself. A poet of exquisite humour, as well
exemplified in his performance of " Peebles to the Phi)/'
he was the life and spirit of the amusements of the evening
which consisted chiefly of the recitation of poetical stories ;
the reading of romances ; the playing on the harp to the
plaintive tunes of the old Scottish ballads — (the touching
words being the suitable accompaniment;) the game of
tables ; and all the other diversions of the age. In all this,
the King joined with (it is said) greater pleasure and
alacrity than he had exhibited for many years. In the
midst of his jests and merry sayings, he even laughed and
made light of a prophecy which had foretold his death in
that year — an allusion perfectly understood by those who
knew of the apparition of the old woman in the red cloak,
whose warning, though not forgotten, was now treated with
his accustomed levity. In playing at chess with a young
knight, over whose shoulder the grey-bearded Athol looked
smilingly into the face of the King, his jesting and merri-
ment was kept up and exercised in a manner that suggested
the most extraordinary coincidences. He had been ac-
customed to call the young knight " the king of love ;" and,
in allusion to the warning, advised him to look well to his
safety, as they were the only two kings in the land. The
old Duke started as he heard this statement come from the
mouth of one on the very eve of being consigned to the
dagger ; and for a moment thought that the conspiracy had
been discovered ; but a second look at the joyous merry-maker
left no doubt on his mind that his jesting was the mere
overflow of an exuberance of spirits.

At this moment, a hundred wild and kilted katherans,
armed with swords and knives, and thirsting for blood, were
lurking in the dark angles of the court of the monastery,
directing their eyes to the blazing Avindows of the presence
chamber, and listening to the sounds of the revels. The
conspirators within knew,' by a concerted signal, that
Graham and his party were in this situation, and looked
anxiously for the breaking up of the entertainment ; but the
King was inclined to prolong the amusements, and the hour
was getting near midnight. While the King was engaged
in play with the young knight, Christopher Chambers, one
of the conspirators, was seized with a fit of remorse, and
repeatedly approached the royal presence, with a view to
inform James of his danger ; but the crowd of knights and
ladies who filled the presence chamber, prevented him. from
executing his purpose. The amusements continued ; it
was now long past midnight, and Stuart and Athol heard,
at length, the long wished for declaration of the King, that
the revels should be concluded.

Just as James had uttered this wish, the usher of the
presence chamber approached Stuart, and whispered in his
ear that an old woman, wrapped up in a red cloak, was at the
door, and requested peimission to see and speak with the
King. The guilty Chamberlain, who was on the point of
giving the fatal signal, heard the statement with horror, and
recoiled back from the usher ; but the die was cast, and even
the powers of heaven were disregarded amidst the turmoil
of wild thoughts that were then careering through his excited
mind. "Bid her begone— thrust her from the door ! he
whispered, in the ear of the usher, and applied himself agaii
to the dreadful work in which he was engaged.

Soon after this, the King called for the parting cup, and
the company dispersed— Athol and Stuart beincr the last

136

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

to leave the apartment With the view of going to bed, James
and his Queen now retired to the sleeping chamber, where
the merry monarch, still under the influence of high spirits,
stood before the fire in his night-gown, talking gaily with those
around him. At that moment, a clang of arms was heard,
and a blaze of torches was seen in the court of the monastery.
The quick mind of the King saw his danger in an instant:
a suspicion of treason, and a dread of his blood-thirsty
enemy, Graham, were his first thoughts. Alarm was now
the prevailing power; and the ladies of the bedchamber,
rushing into the sleeping room, cried that treason was abroad.
The Queen and her attendants flew to secure the doors ;
the locks were useless ; and the certainity of having been
betrayed by his Chamberlain now occupied the mind of the
King. Yet, though he saw his destruction resolved on, he
did not lose presence of mind. He called to his Queen and
ladies to obstruct all entrance as long as they could, and
rushed to the windows. They were firmly secured by iron
bars, and all escape, in that way, was impossible. The clang
of arms increased; and the sounds of the approach of armed
men along the passages, came every instant nearer and
nearer. The ladies screamed, and held the doors ; the King
was in despair ; and, seizing a pair of tongs from the fire-
place, with unexampled force wrenched up the boards of
the floor, and descended into a vault below, while the ladies
replaced the covering.

A slight hope was now entertained that he might escape.
The vault communicated with the outer court ; but, unfor-
tunately, the passage had been shortly before, by the King's
own orders, built up, to prevent the tennis balls of the
players in the tennis court, to which the passage led, from
rolling into the vault, (as they had often done,) and being
lost. There was, therefore, no escape. Meanwhile, Graham
and his katherans rushed towards the bedchamber, and
having slain Walter Straiton, a page they met in the
passage, began to force open the door, amidst the shrieks
of the women, who still, though weakly, attempted to barri-
cade it. An extraordinary circumstance here occurred :
Catherine Douglas, with the heroic resolution of her family,
thrust her arm into the staple from which the bolt had been
taken by the traitors — and in an instant it was snapt asunder.
The conspirators, yelling like fiends, and, with bloody daggers
and knives in their hands, now rushed into the room, and
cowardly stabbed some of the defenceless .ladies, as they
fled screaming round the apartment or trying vainly to hide
themselves in its corners and beneath the bed. The Queen
herself never moved : horror had thrown its cataleptic power
over her frame ; she stood rooted to the floor, a striking
spectacle — her hair hanging over her shoulders, and nothing
on her but her kirtle and mantle. In this situation, she
was stabbed by one of the conspirators, and was only saved
from the knives of others and death itself, by a son of Graham's,
who, impatient for the life of the King, commanded the men
to leave such work for that which was more important.
The King was not to be found; and a suspicion gained
ground, that he had escaped from the sleeping room by the
door. A search was therefore made throughout the whole
monastery, in all the outer rooms along the corridor, and
in the court j and had it not been that Stewart assured
them that it was impossible the King could have escaped
beyond the walls, the search would have been relinquished
in despair.

Meanwhile, the citizens and the nobles, who were quar-
tered in the town, heard the tumult, and were hastening to
the spot. The King might yet be saved ; for his place of
escape had not been discovered, and rescue was at hand.
Alas ! his own impatience brought on his head the ruin
that seemed to be averted. Hearing all quiet, he fancied
that the traitors had relinquished the search, and called up
from the vault to the ladies to bring the sheets from the
bed and draw him up again into the apartment. In attempt-

ing this, one of the ladies, Elizabeth Douglas, fell down
into the vault. The noise recalled the murderers. Thomas
Chambers, who knew all the holes and recesses of the mo-
nastery, suddenly remembered the small vault, and con-
cluded that James must be concealed there. He therefore
returned ; the torn floor caught his eye ; the planks were
again lifted, and a blazing torch was soon held down into
the dark hole. The King and the unfortunate lady, who
lay apparently breathless beside him, were seen ; and, glory-
ing in his discovery, the relentless ruffian shouted aloud with
savage merriment, and called his companions back ; " for,"
as he said, " the bride was found for whom they had sought
and carolled all night." A dreadful scene was now enacted
in the vault, in the hearing of the Queen, who, with her at-
tendants, was still in the apartment. Sir John Hall first
leapt down ; but James, strong in his agony, throttled him,
and flung.him beneath his feet. Hall's brother next descend-
ed, and met the same fate ; and now came the arch enemy,
Sir Robert Graham. Like a roaring tiger, he threw hmseh
into the hole, and James, bleeding sore from the wounds of
Halls' knives, was overcome and fell with the stern murderer
over him. The wretched monarch implored mercy and
begged his life, should it be at the price of half his kingdom.

" Thou cruel tyrant," said Graham, " never hadst thou
compassion on thine own noble kindred ; therefore, expect
none from me."

ft At least," cried James, " let me have a confessor for
the good of my soul."

" None," replied Graham, " but this sword !" Upon
which, he stabbed him in a vital part ; but the King con-
tinued to implore so piteously for mercy that even Graham's
nerves were shaken, and he felt inclined to fly from the
dreadful scene.

His companions above noticed this change ; and, as he was
scrambling up, .leaving the King still breathing, they threat-
ened him with death if he did not complete the work. He
at last obeyed, and struck the King many times till he died.

The story of the Highland woman who appeared to King
James, which, to historians, has so long been a subject of
mystery, is thus, by our chronicle, cleared up. We may
afterwards do the same good office to other curious and
doubtful parts of Scottish history ; but, in the meantime,
as it may be satisfactory to know the fate of those bold
conspirators who executed so desperate a purpose as that
we have narrated, we may mention that the Queen never
rested till she had brought them all to justice. Never was
retribution so certain, so ample, so merited, and so satis-
factory to a whole people ; for James' alleged harshness
was confined to the nobles, and never extended to the
people, who loved the royal poet and revered their King.
Sir Robert Stuart and Thomas Chambers were first taken;
and, upon a confession of their guilt, were beheaded on a
high scaffold, raised in the market-place, and their heads
fixed on the gates of Perth. Athol next suffered ; and, at
he had sighed for a crown, his head, when it was severed
from his body, was encompassed by an iron one. Graham
was next seized; and, after the manner of the times, was
tortured, hefore his execution, in a manner which we can-
not describe. Hall, and all the others, suffered a similar
fate ; and it was alleged that not a single individual who
had a hand in the terrible tragedy was allowed to escape-
thus justifying the ways of God, where vengeance, though
sometimes concealed, sooner or later overtakes those who
contravene his la^fg.

W IL S 0 N'S

f^teton'cal, arralutt'onarB, anH

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SKEAN DHU

'•' BLESS me, Angus ! do you wear a weapon of that kind
about you ? — I never knew it before," said John Sommerville
to his friend Angus M'Intyre, as he sat looking at him one
morning performing his toilet ; an operation which discovered
the latter thrusting a skean dhu — which all our readers
know is a short knife, with a black horn handle, once a favour-
ite weapon of the Highlanders — beneath the breast of his
coat, into a sheath which seemed to have been placed there
for the especial purpose.

" Did you not know that before, John ?" said Angus,
with a faint smile, but at the same time evidently desiring
that there should be no more remarks made on the subject ;
for he hastily buttoned up his coat, after having placed the
Weapon in its sheath, as if to cut the conversation short by
putting its subject out of sight.

" No, indeed, I did not," replied Sommerville. " I never
saw it before, and never heard you carried such a thing about
you. It's a dangerous weapon, Angus ; and you are a more
dangerous man than I thought you," he added, smiling.

" Tuts — nonsense, man," said MTntyre, impatiently.
" It'll never harm you, at any rate, John."

" No, no; I dare say not," replied his friend, good humour -
edly ; " but it may hurt others, though. Let me see it, Mac."
Angus reluctantly complied with his request, and put the
tiny, but formidable weapon into his hands.

" It has my initials, I declare, on the handle !" exclaimed
Sommerville, as he looked at the letters J. S. which were
engraved on the but-end of the knife.

" Yes," replied his friend — " it belonged to my maternal
grandfather, John Stewart of Ardnahulish."

Sommerville returned the weapon without further remark ;
and here the conversation dropped. We will avail ourselves
of the opportunity to say who the parties were whom we
have thus somewhat abruptly introduced to the reader.

Angus M'Intyre was a native of the island of Sky, in
the West Highlands of Scotland, and was, at the period of
our story, (now a pretty old one, as it happened in the year
17 — ,) an officer of excise in Glasgow. At this period,
the Highland character had not lost all its original ferocity,
and consequently the circumstance of an officer of excise,
who was a Highlander, wearing a dirk, even in the discharge
of the peaceable duties, though they were not always so
either, that fell to his lot in a large town, was not by any
means considered so very extraordinary a thing as it would
be now. M'Intyre, as we have said, was a native of the
West Highlands of Scotland, a»d an admirable specimen of
the hardy and intrepid race from which he sprung. He
was a very handsome man, and of the most daring courage,
as had been often proven in the perilous adventures in
which his profession occasionally engaged him. He was
however, of a remarkably quiet disposition, though fiery and
irascible when provoked ; but so much did the former prevail
in his nature, that no one who did not know him intimately
would have guessed how fiery a spirit lay couched underneath
this thin covering of placidity, nor deemed, unless they
saw that spirit roused, how formidable a man in his anger
122. VOL III.

its possessor was. Yet; withal, was he a man of a kind
and generous heart. The habit of carrying the deadly
weapon to which we have alluded, Angus had acquired,
when a youth, in the Highlands, where it was then common
to be so armed ; and this habit had adhered to him, not-
withstanding the entire change of life to which his new
occupation, as an excise officer, had introduced him.
Angus, in short, although they had made him a clergyman,
would, it was believed by those who knew him, have carried
his skean dhu with him to the pulpit. He made no boast,
however, of being possessed of this weapon. On the con-
trary, as we have already in part shewn, he very much dis-
liked any allusion to it ; for it was known, by a few of his
most intimate friends, that he did carry such a thing about
with him, and by these such allusions were sometimes made;
but the former, although they had often seen his naturally
fiery temper put to very severe test, never knew an instance
of his having taken advantage of his concealed arms, even
to the extent of a threat, excepting in the single instance of
which we are about to speak ; but that alone is sufficient to
1 shew, in a very striking light, we think, the miserable effects
of introducing or maintaining barbarous habits, more espe-
cially that of wearing secret weapons, into civilized and
social life.

Of Sommerville, we have not much to say in the way of
description. He was in the same service with M'Intyre—
that is, the excise; and was about the same age — thirty-two
or thirty-three. They were intimate friends, and as fre-
quently together as the nature of their duties would permit ;
and were both unmarried. On the same day on which the
conversation with which we opened our story took place, it
happened that Angus and Sommerville were invited together
to a tavern dinner, in the Saltmarket, with some mutual
friends. About an hour previous to that appointed for the
festive meeting, Sommerville called on M'Intyre, at his
lodgings, with the view of waiting for him, that they might
go together to the house where they were to dine. A few
minutes before they left M'Intyre's lodgings for this pur-
pose, Sommerville said, playfully —

" By the by, Mac, I hope you do not intend taking that
infernal weapon with you to-night?"

"Tuts, man," replied MTntyre, somewhat testily, "neve*
mind it. What need ye always harp on that string ? Did
you never know of a gentleman wearing a dirk before ? It's
no such extraordinary or terrible thing, surely."

" Terrible enough in reckless hands," said Sommerville.

M'Intyre looked more and more displeased, as his friend
continued to cling to the subject ; but his only reply was —

"Nonsense, John. Come, let us be going — it's near the
hour."

" Well, 1 tell you what it is, Angus," remarked his friend,
banteringly, and still pertinaciously dwelling on the skean
dhu — " I won't sit beside you to-night — I'll take care of that.
No, nor within arm's length of you either."

" Sit where you please," replied M'Intyre, angrily ; and
he flung out of the apartment, followed by Sommerville.

On their reaching the tavern, the company were already
assembled, and were waiting their presence before sitting

138

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

down to table. As soon as they entered, however, places
were taken; and it happened, by chance, that the only vacant
chair left for Sommerville, was one next his friend M'Intyre.
On observing this, the former jokingly declined it,^ saying —

" No no, Mac — 1 won't sit near you, as I said before.
Ye're no canny — >! have discovered that." And he winked
significantly; and, following up the jesting resolution which
he had just expressed, he eventually took his place at a dif-
ferent part of the table. M'Intyre said nothing in reply to
his friend's remarks ; but there was a frown upon his brow
that shewed pretty plainly, though none present observed it,
that he was very far from being pleased with them. In
truth, he was highly irritated at what appeared to him the
silly, provoking pertinacity of his friend, in dwelling on a
subject which, he thought, the latter might have discovered
before, by his manner, was disagreeable to him. Nay, to
make matters worse, he had no doubt that he had discovered
it ; and that this, instead of being considered by him as a
reason for refraining, was deemed directly the reverse — an
excellent source of small annoyance. What followed on this
fatal night will, we think, be most graphically related in the
words of a person, another intimate friend of M'Intyre's,
who was present : —

" At the close of the entertainment," said the person
alluded to, " which was protracted to a pretty late hour,
some high words suddenly arose between M'Intyre and Som-
merville ; the former being evidently predisposed, from
some cause or other, to quarrel with the latter ; but so few
were they, that I paid but little attention to them, and had
no difficulty in reconciling the parties, as I imagined ; but
in this, at least in so far as regarded M'Intyre, I was mis-
taken. No more words, however, of an angry nature passed
between them. At length the party broke up — M'Intyre,
Sommerville, and myself remaining a short time behind,
when we also left. Sommerville went first, M'Intyre fol-
lowed, and I went last. In this order we were passing
through the entrance, which was quite dark, to gain the
street, when I was suddenly horror-struck by hearing Som-
merville utter a loud shriek, and, in a moment after, saying,
in a hoarse, unearthly tone, as he staggered against the wall,
' I am a murdered man ! — M'Intyre has stabbed me !'

Guessing precisely what had taken place, I rushed to
the mouth of the entrance, and saw M'Intyre crossing the
street with as calm and deliberate a step as if nothing had
happened ; and, immediately after, he turned a corner and
disappeared. I now returned to Sommerville, whom I found
still leaning against the wall, with his hand upon his wound.
In an instant after, he fell, groaned heavily, and, when I
stooped down to assist him, I found he was gone. Several
persons had, by this time, assembled round us ; and, by the
assistance of two or three of these, we had the body of the
unfortunate man conveyed to his lodgings. Next morning,
having occasion to be abroad very early, and to pass the
residence of the Procurator-Fiscal, I saw three men, whom
I knew to be criminal officers, just entering the house. In
an instant it crossed my mind that this untimeous visit of
these gentlemen to the functionary above named, was, in
some way or other, connected with the melancholy event of
the preceding night, and that my unfortunate friend, M'In-

tyre, was about to be apprehended. Fully impressed with
this idea, I instantly hastened to his lodgings, taking such
short cuts and by-ways as I knew would give me several
minutes' start of his pursuers, if the men I saw really were
to become such — and the sequel will shew they did. On
entering M'Intyre's room, which I did in considerable agita-

that there will be one out immediately; so, for God's sake,
rise, and let us see whether we cannot find a hiding-place
for you.' I then hastily mentioned to him the grounds of

my suspicions of such being the case. While I was speaking
the unhappy man looked at me with an expression of
extreme surprise, and as if he did not at all comprehend
what I meant. In truth, neither he did ; for he had at
the moment no recollection whatever of the dreadful deed
he had perpetrated — a circumstance which left no doubt
of his having been greatly under the influence of liquor
when it was done, although I did not at the time think so.
By degrees, however, the horrible truth flashed upon him ;
and the painful realities of the preceding night stood
before him. His, however, was a stout heart- His firm
nerves shook not under the pressure of the dreadful
circumstances in which he was placed. He made no
remarks on my communication, but immediately rose and
put on his clothes ; and this he did with a coolness and
deliberation that bolh amazed and irritated me ; for I was
afraid that the officers of justice would be in upon us every
moment. Having at length dressed, we both sallied out,
although I did not at all know which direction I shoulc
recommend my unfortunate friend to take ; neither had he
himself any idea whither he should go. We, however,
proceeded down the street in which he lived ; and, just as
we were about turning the corner, at the foot, happening to
look round, we saw the officers in the act of entering the
street at the opposite end. At this alarming sight, we of
course quickened our pace, although we calculated that
some time would be gained by the search to which we did
not doubt the officers would subject the house in which
M'Intyre lived. I could not but admire the coolness and
presence of mind which my unfortunate friend exhibited
under these trying circumstances, although I certainly
could have wished the exhibition made in a better cause,
and on a more honourable occasion. In his manner there
was not the least Hurry nor agitation. He remained
perfectly calm and collected, although an ignominious
death was now staring him in the face. After we had
proceeded a little way, M'Intyre suddenly stopped, and,
addressing me, remarked that my accompanying him could
serve no good end, but rather increase the difficulty of his
escape, and that, therefore, I had better leave him. To
the propriety of this remark, I could not but subscribe ; and
I therefore, thougli reluctantly — for, notwithstanding the
rash and indefensible act he had committed, I could not
forget the character which my unfortunate friend had
formerly borne, which was that of an honest, honourable,
and warm-hearted man — agreed to leave him. Before we
parted, he told me that he now recollected, that, previously
to his returning to his lodgings after he had stabbed
Sommerville, he had gone down to the Clyde, and tossed
the fatal weapon with which he had done the deed, as far
as he could throw it into the river ; but whether this was
merely a precautionary measure, to break at least one link
in the chain of evidence, or the result of a feeling of horror at
what he had done, he did not explain ; but my impression
was that it was the latter. Having agreed in the propriety
of my friend's remark as to the additional danger to which
my accompanying him further would expose him, we parted
— I to return to my lodgings, and he to seek shelter where
he might, for he had not, at the moment, the smallest idea
whither he should direct his steps.

For about ten days after this, I heard nothing of my
unhappy friend ; but, at the end of that period, I learned
that he had been apprehended, and was then in Glasgow
jail. This intelligence was subsequently confirmed by a
note from himself, which I received, intimating his appre-
hension, and requesting me to call upon him. With this
request I complied, and found my unfortunate friend in the
dreadful circumstances of an imprisoned criminal. He was,
however, still calm and collected ; and appeared perfectly
resigned to the fate which, he had not the smallest doubt,
awaited him — viz., that he should die upon the scaffold

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

139

and, indeed, no reasonable man could have expected any
other issue, nor could it be denied that he deserved it. Our
interview was short, as it was necessarily carried on in the
presence of a turnkey, and, therefore, confined to merely
general topics. The unhappy man himself, besides, shewed
no disposition to prolong it ; and, observing this, I with-
drew, after obtaining his promise to apply to me for anything
he might want, and for any service it might be in my power
to render him.

About three weeks after this, while I was at breakfast,
one morning, my landlady came into my room, to inform me
that there was a young woman at the door, who wished to
speak with me. I desired her to be shewn in. She entered;
and a more interesting looking girl I have rarely seen. She
appeared to be about one-and-twenty years of age, and was
extremely graceful, both in person and manner. The latter,
indeed, bespoke a much more elevated condition than her
dress — which was that of a domestic servant — seemed to
indicate. Her style of language, too., discovered the same
contradiction to appearances.

Courtseying as she entered, and blushing as she spoke —
' You are, sir, I believe,' said she, ' a friend of poor

M'Intyre's, just now in Glasgow jail, for, for' And here

her emotion prevented her further utterance.

' I was/ replied I, interposing to save her feelings, which
I saw were painfully excited, ' and I still am his friend.
Would to God, I had some way of shewing him, in his mis-
fortune, how sincerely I am so !"

This I said with a degree of earnestness and fervour that
seemed to make a strong impression on my fair, but mys-
terious visiter. She became pale and agitated, and I thought
I could even discover a tear glittering in her eye. When
this momentary emotion had passed away —

' Then,' she said, ' I need not hesitate to trust you with
a secret.' And she glanced towards the door, to see that it
was shut. 'This night/ she resumed, ' M'Intyre will
escape from prison/

' Escape! — how? — by what means?' I exclaimed, in
amazement.

' By mine/ she replied, calmly.
' By yours !' I said, with increased astonishment.
' Yes, sir, by mine. This night at twelve o'clock he
will be without the prison walls, and at liberty, and you
must then do him the last service he is ever likely to require
at your hands. You will have a chaise waiting at the hour
1 have mentioned, at the first mile-stone on the Greenock
road. Will you do this, and save the life of your unfortu-
nate friend ?'

Although a good deal confused by the suddenness and
singularity of the whole affair, I, without a moment's hesi-
tation or reflection, replied that I would; and, having
made this promise, I asked my visiter if she would further
confide in me, by telling me all the particulars connected
with the proposed escape of my friend.

' Not now — not now/ she said, gathering a tartan plaid,
which she wore round her, as if to depart ; ' but you will
probably learn all afterwards. In the meantime, farewell !
and, as you would have a friend do to you in similar cir-
cumstances, so do you to your friend. Be faithful to your
promise/ And, ere I could make any farther remark, or
put any other question, she hurried out of the apartment,
hastily opened the street door, rushed out, and disappeared."
Interrupting this personal narrative for a time, we will
shift the scene, on the eventful night in question — eventful,
at least, to the unfortunate subject of our story— to the
house of the jailor, in whose custody he was ; and here we
shall find, in the capacity' of a domestic servant, a young
woman, bearing a very striking resemblance to her who
visited M'Intyre's friend, as above described. Indeed,
there can be 'no doubt that they are the same. It was
the jailor's custom, at this time) make the rounds of

the prison precisely at nine o'clock every night, to see
that all was secure; and when this survey' was completed,
to carry all the keys with him to his own house, which was
included in the general building, and had interior communi-
cation vvith that portion of it where prisoners were confined.
On bringing up the keys, as usual, on the night of which we
are speaking, the jailor gave them in charge to his wife, as
he was invited out to join a party of friends on some occasion
of merry-making— a circumstance which had been previously
known to his family, and, amongst the rest, to the servant
girl a short while since alluded to. Having received the keys
from her husband, the jailor's wife carried them to her own
bedroom, for greater safety, and there deposited them in a
drawer. In less than two hours after, this drawer was
secretly visited by the young woman just spoken of, and a
particular key carefully selected, detached from the rest, and
transferred, from the drawer in which it had lain, into her
pocket, when she withdrew with her prize. Shortly after
this, the jailor returned, and retired to bed. "When the
whole was still, the purloiner of the key might have been
seen stealing, with cautious steps, down "the staircase that
led into the principal passage of the prison, where were sta-
tioned two turnkeys — one at the outer door, and one at the
Advancing to the former —

inner.

"James," said the girl, " Mr Simpson" (the name of the
jailor) " desires to see you up stairs immediately. Go to the
little parlour, and wait for him there, and he'll come to you
directly."

" Lassie," said the man, " I canna leave the door richtly;
but if he wants me, I suppose I maun gang."

" I'll keep the key till you return," said the former, "and
tell Andrew" (meaning the inner turnkey) " to look after
the door till you return, James."

" Ay, do, like a dear," replied the unsuspecting turnkey,
handing her the key, and hastening away to attend the call
of his superior.

On his departure, the girl went, as she had promised, to
the other turnkey ; but it was to deliver a very different
message from that she had undertaken. To him, in truth,
she made precisely the same communication as she had done
to his neighbour, with a difference of destination — him she
directed to wait his master in the kitchen. This guardian,
trusting in the vigilance of him of the outer door, of whose
absence he was unaware, made no difficulty whatever of
obeying, but instantly ascended to the jailor's kitchen, where
he patiently awaited the appearance of his superior. Hav-
ing thus disposed of the two turnkeys, the girl now, with a
beating heart, flew to the door of the apartment in which
M'Intyre was confined, applied the key to the lock, turned
its huge bolt, and the way was clear.

" Angus M'Intyre," she said, on flinging up the door,
" come forth, come forth, and fly instantly for your life !
There is none to oppose you."

" In the name of God, who are you ?" said M'Intyre,
instinctively obeying the call to liberty and freedom. " I
should know that voice," he added, endeavouring to obtain
a glimpse of the face of his deliverer, but in vain, as she
was carefully hooded, and the place profoundly dark.

" Hush, hush ! — not a word !" said the latter. ' What
does it signify to you who I am ? Off, off instantly ! — you
have not a moment to loose. This way, this way." And she
hurried the astonished prisoner, though now no longer so,
through the deserted passage of the jail, till they reached
the outer door, to which she applied the key with which its
simple guardian had entrusted her, and, in the next instant,
M'Intyre and his deliverer were in the street. On gaining

" Now, fly, Angus," said the latter, thrusting, at the same
time, a purs'e of money into his hand. " At the first mile-
stone on the Greenock road, you will find a chaise waiting
vou. In that, vou will proceed to Greenock, where you AM!

140

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

find a ship to sail to-morrow for New York. Embark on
board of her ; and you will then., I trust, escape the venge-
ance of man — it must be your own business, Angus, to
deprecate that of your God." And, without waiting for any
reply, or permitting herself to be known to her companion,
she hastened away in the opposite direction to that she had
pointed out to M'Intyre, and disappeared. The latter,
bewildered with the suddenness and strangeness of the pro-
ceeding which had thus so mysteriously led to his liberation,
stood for a second confused, irresolute, and undetermined.
His first idea was to pursue his deliverer and to insist on
ascertaining who she was ; but even the moment he took
to deliberate, had put this out of his power, for the night
was dark, and she was already out of sight ; and where there
were so many ready places of concealment, the pursuit was
4 hopeless one. M'Intyre perceived this ; and aware, at
the same time, how necessary it was that he should instantly
quit the vicinity of the jail, he hastened to the place where
he had been told a chaise would be waiting him. The
chaise was there ; M'Intyre flung himself into it, reached
Greenock in about four hours afterwards, and, before another
sun had sunk in the west, he was sailing down the Firth
of Clyde on his way to the opposite shores of the Atlantic.

" Three years after the occurrence of the events just re-
lated," continued the narrator whom we have already quoted,
" during which time I had heard nothing more of M'Intyre
than that he had eifected his escape, nor anything whatever
of his deliverer, I was removed, by order of the Board of
Excise, to the island of Sky, where I was settled, perhaps
about a year, when, one day as I was crossing the country
from Portree to Meystead — a place celebrated in the wan-
derings of Prince Charles — I met a party of ladies and
gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. They were a
merry squad, with the exception of one of the ladies, who
seemed to take but little share in the obstreperous mirth
of her companions ; and it was owing to this circumstance,
perhaps, that I found her engrossing a greater share of my
attention than the others ; for, in that hospitable country,
we were friends the moment we met, although we had
never seen each other before ; and the party, having some
provisions with them, I was requested to favour them with
my company to a dejeune, which, they informed me, they
had been on the eve of making before I joined them.
Readily accepting their kind invitation, I accompanied my
new friends in search of a suitable spot for the proposed
entertainment. This was soon found, and we all sat down
on the grass to partake of the good things provided for the
occasion. During the repast, I could not keep my eyes off
the lady whose melancholy had first attracted my attention ;
for I felt an impression that I had seen the face somewhere
before; but when, where, or under whatcircumstances, Icould
not at all recollect. She seemed also to recognise me ; for
there was a marked confusion and agitation, both in her
countenance and manner, from the moment I joined the
party to which she belonged. Guessing, from these expres-
sions, that it would not be agreeable to her that I should
make any attempt at renewing our acquaintance, of what-
ever nature that might have been, in the presence of her
friends, I forbore ; but determined, if an opportunity was
afforded me, of doing so before we parted, as I felt all that
curiosity and uneasiness which such vague and imperfect
recognition of a person's identity is so apt to create. The
opportunity I desired, the lady, of h«?-r own accord, subse-
quently afforded me.

When our repast was concluded, she said, addressing
me — ' We are going, sir, to see the falls of Lubdearg,
about a mile from this. It is a very magnificent one ; and,
if you have never seen it before, and are in no great hurry
to prosecute your journey, you will, perhaps, accompany
us. My friends here, I am sure, will be glad of such an
addition to their party '

The falls she alluded to, I had never seen; and for this
reason, but still more for that before hinted at, I gladly
accepted the proposal of becoming one of the party to
Lubdearg. While we were proceeding thither, my inviter
contrived to drop a little way behind her friends ; which
perceiving, and conjecturing that she did so for the especial
purpose of affording me an opportunity of speaking with
her, I availed myself of it, with a degree of caution that
prevented all appearance of connivance, and joined her.
Being considerably apart from the others, she said, smil-
ing—

' You have recognised me, I rather think, sir ; but do
you recollect where and under what circumstances it was
that you saw me?'

' I do not indeed ; I have not the most distant idea,'
I said ; f but I certainly do recollect having seen you
before.'

' And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is
impossible I should ever forget either you or the occasion
that introduced me to you. Do you,' she added, ' recollect
of a young woman calling on you one morning at your
lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in readiness on
the Greenock road, to aid' — and here she paused a mo-
ment, and betrayed great emotion — ' the escape,' she
resumed, ' of Angus M'Intyre.'

I need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I
knew, ere it was half concluded, that it was the deliverer
of my unhappy friend who stood before me.

' I do, I do, perfectly,' I replied — ' you are the very per-
son. This is, indeed, strange — most singular — our meeting
here again, and in this way. But who, in heaven's name,
are you ?' I added : ' that I have never yet known.'

The lady smiled sadly. ' Did you ever hear your un-
fortunate friend speak of one Miss Eliza Stewart?' she
said.

' Often, often,' I replied ; ( to that lady I always un-
derstood he was to have been married, had not that de-
plorable occurrence taken place, which so miserably changed
his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life.'

' It was so,' said my fair companion, with increased
emotion. ' I am that person.'

' Impossible !'

' It is true ; I am Eliza Stewart.

4 Then, here is more perplexity and mystery,' said I.
' How, in all the world, came you to appear to me in
the dress and character of a servant girl — you, who are a
lady both by birth and education ?' (this I knew from
M'Intyre ;) ' and how, above all, did you effect the escape of
our unfortunate friend ?'

The lady again smiled with a melancholy air. ' I will
inform you of all,' she said, ' in a very few words. At the
time of Angus' misfortune, I lived, as you may probably

know, with my father at , in Sky here. On hearing oJ

what had taken place, and of Angus's apprehension, I
hastened to Glasgow, on pretence of visiting a friend, and got
into the house of the jailor in the character of a domestic
servant. I will not say by whose means I effected this, as
it might still bring ruin on their heads." And here my fair
informant gave me the details which are already before the
reader. ' On effecting his escape,' she went on, ' I im-
mediately resumed my own dress, and returned to my
father's house, where it was next to impossible to detect, in
his daughter, the servant girl of the Glasgow jailor. Our
remote situation, besides, further secured me from the
chance of discovery ; and I have not yet been discovered,
nor do I suppose I ever will now.'

' And why,' said I, laughingly, ' did you not share the
fortunes of the man in whom you thus took so deep an
interest ?'

' No, no/ said the heroic girl, with an expression ot
' deep feeling ; ' I loved M'lntyre, I confess it, with the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

141

most sincere and devoted affection — what I did for him
proves it ; but I could not think of uniting myself to a
man whose hand was red with the blood of a fellow-
creature ; for it cannot be denied that our unfortunate
friend, notwithstanding all his good qualities, was — there is

no disguising it — a' Here her emotion prevented her

finishing the sentence — nor did she afterwards finish it ; but
I had no doubt the word she would have supplied was
' murderer.'

' Now, sir, you know all,' she continued, on recovering
from her perturbation ; ' but you will make no allusion, I
beg of you, to anything I have told you, to my friends here,
amongst whom are my father, mother, and a sister, who
know nothing whatever of the part I acted in effecting
M'Intyre's escape.'

With this request I promised compliance. We reached
the falls of Lubdearg. I parted with Eliza Stewart ; and
we never met again, as, in a few days afterwards, I left the
island ; and, with this event, terminated all connecting
circumstances on my part with ' The Skean Dhu.' "

THE BREAKING UP OF THE FOREST OF PLATER.

THE breaking up of the old forests of Scotland was, per
haps, the first important step that was made towards its
civilization. Prior to the reign of David II. — and, indeed,
long after that period — the whole face of the country pre-
sented an appearance not much different from that, at
this day, exhibited by many of the wooded parts of America.
The number of extensive forests then existing has been
given by historians ; and, though many of them extended
over whole counties, their names are not now to be traced
in the local designations which point out the praedial divi-
sions of the space they once occupied.

Amongst the most extensive of these forests, and, per-
haps, the first that was broken up, was the Forest of Plater,
in the county of Angus. Its extent was so great that a
very large proportion of that county was covered by it ;
and, bordering as it did upon the lower end of the Gram-
pians, it was much infested by the wolves of those
heights, which came down to commit ravages on its inha-
bitants, whether wild or domestic. As the first of the
forests that resounded to the sound of the axe, and, by its
destruction leading the way to others, opened up Scot-
land to the ameliorating and civilizing effects of the plough,
its limits have been attempted to be traced by antiquaries ;
but with no great success. The circumstances, however,
which led to the first grant of its cleared soil are known,
and, being curious, deserve notice, as well from their own
nature as the fact of their signalizing the dawn of Scottish
civilization.

David II. was, for a considerable period, a captive in
England — a circumstance adequately impressed on the me-
mories of the already oppressed inhabitants, by the im-
mense sum of ransom they had to pay for the liberation of
a king who rewarded his faithful country by afterwards en-
deavouring to betray it — by attempting to alter the order of
succession of its kings in favour of an English prince. He
also resided for a time in France, where he, in all likelihood,
acquired that effeminacy of character and love of unlawful
pleasures which unfitted him, both in a physical and moral
point of view, for being the king of a barbarous, though
true-hearted people.

After the death of his Queen Joanna, David began his
intercourse with the famous beauty, Margaret Logy, sup-
posed to be the daughter of Sir John de Logy, who resided,
at that period, in Angus, and close by the Forest of Plater.
In addition to the other circumstances which render this
forest memorable, its umbrageous retreat was selected by
the royal lover as the place of his interviews with his fair
mistress. Coming from Scone or Falkland, bv short jour-

neys, he continued to feed his passion by frequent inter-
views with the fair Margaret, at a part of the forest called,
as many other wild places were then denominated, the
Wolf's Glen. Having met her first when he wore, as he
often did, the dress of a French knight, he, for a long time,
kept up that character in the estimation of his mistress,
whose vanity was fed by the fulsome style of gallantry
which her lover had imported from that country, and
applied to her in its most inflated form. The King's imi-
tation of French customs and dress was, indeed, carried
much farther than suited the national prejudices of his
people, however much it may have been relished by Mar-
garet Logy. The broad silk sash which occupied the place
of the leather belt, and white kid gloves superseding, with
strange contrast, the buckram glaives of the hardy warriors
of Scotland, had peculiar charms for the eye of a female,
which a kilted katheran might not have been able to dis
cover.

Not far distant from the glen where David was in the habit
of meeting and wooing his mistress, there was a small forest
out, occupied by a hind, of the name of Murdoch Rhind,
who had a wife and a large family of children. Rhind, in
consequence of having previously seen King David on some
public occasion, knew who the French knight was, that
so often met Sir John Logy's daughter in the forest, and
was not without an expectation that he might in some
way benefit himself and his family, by the knowledge he
had thus, by mere chance, come to be possessed of. After
revolving in his mind various schemes, comprehending a pro-
jected discovery to the damsel's father, a secret intimation
to the King, accompanied by a hint to be paid for his
secrecy, and others equally feasible and equally fruitless,
he resolved upon trusting to chance, to present to him an
occasion for making his knowledge available, which he
would not fail to take advantage of, and turn to the best
account. This occasion was afforded him sooner than he
expected.

One night, when Rhind was passing the Wolf's Glen, with
the view of bringing home some wood, which he had, for
the use of his cottage, cut in the fore part of the day, he
heard the sound of voices in the lovers' favourite retreat,
and did not doubt that they were those of the King and his
mistress. Curiosity to hear a royal courtship was stronger
than the wish to obey the command of his wife, who wanted
the faggots for the purpose of preparing their supper ; and.
stealing behind a bracken bush, which concealed him from
the lovers, he sat down very much at his ease, though in the
presence of royalty, to hear a courtship which he shrewdly
suspected must differ considerably from the mode of woo
ing he had adopted, in winning the heart and hand of Peggy
Hamilton, who was now waiting for the faggots, uncon-
scious that her husband, Murdoch, was in the presence of
King David of Scotland.

" And is France so very different," said the fair damsel,
in continuation, no doubt, of the prior discourse, " from
our own country ? Such is the effect of habit, that I could
not form an idea of a country, the greater part of which is
without trees. Neither hunting nor wooing can thrive in
a bare land ; and what is any country without these ? I
love the French gallantry and their exquisite fabrics — their
taffeta, and brocades, and soft gloves, which last, of all the
parts of a knight's apparel, indicate, with greatest certainty,
the gentleman. But where does gallantry shew so well, and
where do these articles of dress so nobly embellish beauty
and grace, as in the still umbrageous wood, with the green
leaves as your canopy, and the tuneful inhabitants your
companions ? Believe me, Sir Knight, I would have the
men, and the manners, and the fabrics of France imported
into Scotland."

" Thou hast said nothing of the ladies of France.." said
!i David, with his accustomed gallantry. « Wouldst thou leavf

142

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

them in the mateless condition of the ancient Amazons, with-
out a single lover to console them for the loss of their silks ?''

"The exception, good Sir Knight/'replied Margaret, blush-
ing, " is a woman's who could not bear competition for
the heart of her lover. Thou knowest that, among French
beauties, poor Margaret Logy would have small chance of
retaining thy affections."

" Humble wood-nymph," said David, clasping her hand,
tl I would not exchange thee, in thy dress of linsey-woolsey,
for all the fair damsels of Paris, dressed in silk and sey.
But, in thy sweet prattle, thou hast approached a subject
which our King, who loves the French and their subtle
inventions, would do well to consider. We can enjoy none
of the envied productions of the useful arts which thou
hast been so much applauding, at the same time that we
retain these mighty drawing-rooms of nemoral gallantry
thou wert now describing with the fervour which our pre-
sence in one of them at this moment has produced. The
one might be made the cause of the production of the
other. Were I King David, as I am only Sir Philip
Nemours of Lorraine, I would portion out a great part of
the forests of Scotland, beginning with Plater, to feuars,
taking them bound to deliver to me yearly, as the condition
of their grant, a piece of silk, or a pair of gloves, or some
other article of manufacture, which might be introduced into
Scotland ; and thus at once bribe and oblige the inha-
bitants to become manufacturers, at the same time that
they were learning the art of husbandry."

" Thy gloves would be better covering thy mouth, Sir
Knight, than thy hand," said Margaret " if thou art to fill
a maiden's ears with a discourse on manufactures, in place
of the soft accents of love. What careth a damsel for the
loom or the loom-weaver that produces her silks, or the
skin of the goat that furnishes her with her soft hand-shoes,
as they call gloves in the Pictish counties of Scotland? What
hath become of my knight's gallantry, now that he is, in
imagination, a manufacturing king ?"

" The mercy of a beautiful woman comes quick upon the
repentance of her lover," said David, smiling — " especially
when his error is a mere continuation of one committed by
the lady herself. Thou forgettest, fair Margaret, that thou
didst originate this discussion, by expressing a wish to get
the French gentlemen, manners, and fabrics, imported into
Scotland, while I only suggested a mode of doing without
them ; and, upon my honour, were I King David, I would
put it into execution."

The lovers were surprised by the sudden appearance of
Murdoch Rhind, who stood before them.

" Your Majesty" said he, stepping up and whispering
these two words, which contained the whole secret, into
the King's ear, and then continuing the rest of his
speech in an audible tone — " the King" (pausing and
eyeing David with a sly Scotch eye) " couldna do better
than begin with the Forest o' Plater ; and wha has a better
right to the first grant than Murdoch Rhind, wha has
wrought his bairns' mittens an' his wife's Sabbath glaives sin'
the Eve o' St John, fifteen years back. I cam to warn ye
that there's a wolf at the back o' yon bracken bush."

" Thanks to thee, sir," replied David, eyeing Murdoch
carefully, and seeing at once where the game lay. " Thou
art a very discreet fellow ; and the discretion of the tongue,
which is of more service than that of the hand, deserves
its reward. Where is thy cottage ?"

" In the wud there," replied Murdoch — <f twa casts east
frae the Glen. I will be at hame the morn frae matins to
vespers, waitin for a visit frae" — (a pause) — " Sir Philip
Nemours."

" I will call for thee, Murdoch/' said David, " and re-
ward thee for thy timeous intimation. — Let us go, dear
Margaret ! I hope that next time we meet, there may be
no wolves in the Glen."

" Murdoch Rhind will tak guid care o' that, youi
Honour," cried Murdoch after the lovers, as they de-
parted.

Murdoch went leisurely and tied up his faggots. When
he got home, the poor husband received for his pains the
customary tribute due to disobedient consorts, who choose,
foolishly and rebelliously, to act upon the verdicts of their
own wittol judgments, when they should quietly follow
the course pointed out by their wives. The time necessary
for going, and tying up the faggots, and returning, was cal
culated to a minute ; and all that was beyond that, was to
be accounted for with the fidelity of a treasurer. It did
not, however, at that time, suit the husband's notions of
marital obedience, to render this strict accounting. Un-
willing to tell a lie — for, though poor, he was honest and
true — he contented himself with evasive answers — adroitly
turning the tables on his wife, and alleging that the
last time she went to the fair of Forfar she staid three
hours beyond her time, a period which had not been
accounted for to that day. The effect of carrying the war
into the enemy's country was soon apparent. Peggy
became silent; but managed, according to the tact of her
sex, to cover her retreat, by keeping her mouth in such conti-
nual occupation with the affair of the supper, that she had,
apparently, neither time nor room for farther words of
objurgation.

Next morning, Murdoch told Peggy that a gentleman was
to call upon him during the day, requesting her not to be
alarmed at his silken sash, or his otherinsigniaof knighthood.
The good woman inquired the object of the visit, and was
surprised that her husband observed the same silence on
that subject as he had so unaccountably exhibited on
the previous night. Fear took possession of her, and she
pictured to herself an officer of the law, coming to appre-
hend her husband for some misdemeanour committed in
the forest. This feeling was not much assuaged by the
appearance of the stranger himself, who called faithfully
about the hour of twelve, and had an interview with Mur-
doch.

" How many ox-gangs wouldst thou require of the Forest
of Plater ?" inquired David.

" Four, an' please your Majesty," replied Murdoch.

" And wilt thou undertake," added the King, " to ren-
der to me yearly, in name of feu-duty, a pair of white kid
gloves of thy own manufacture ?"

" I will work my way to France," replied Murdoch,
" for the very purpose o' learning the secret o' this trade,
and will undertake to perform the service yearly, on pain
o' losing my grant, wi' a' meliorations."

" Thou shalt have thy grant," said David ; " but upon
this other condition — which, however," (he added, smiling,)
"doth not enter the writ — that thou keepest the secret of
my personality. Thou understandest me ?"

" Brawly, your Majesty," answered Murdoch. " There
will be nae mair wolves i* the Wolf's Glen ; whilk, indeed,
craving your Majesty's pardon, is mair fitted, frae its great
beauty, for makin a pairt o' my four ox-gangs — that is,
after your Majesty nae mair requires it for wooing — than
for a lair to wild beasts."

" The place shall be added to thy ox-gangs," said the
Monarch, laughing ; " but always with my right of servitude
of making love among its birken bushes."

The grant was afterwards made out, of four ox-gangs of
Plater Forest, in favour of Murdoch Rhind, for the strange
reddendo of a pair of white kid gloves yearly. This was
the first breaking up of the ancient forests of Scotland, and
the fact, which is historical, of the yearly rendering of the
gloves, forms a curious contrast with the act of which it
was made a condition. David, as is well known, after-
wards married Margaret Logy. Her subsequent divorce
and application to the Pooe, are matters of history.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

143

THE WEIRD OF THE THREE ARROWS.

AMONG the many strange stories that were circulated in
Scotland, in the days of her adversity, and received a cre-
dence from the people, in consequence of the heartfelt pres-
sure of the misery which, perhaps, produced them, there was
one which asserted the usual claims on the faith of the
Borderers — and probably on as good grounds as any of the
others — but which has been somewhat unfairly passed over
by our historians. We delight in doing justice to an old
neglected legend, and therefore present it to our readers.

Sir James Douglas — the companion of Bruce, and well
known by his appellation of the "Black Douglas" — was once,
during the hottest period of the exterminating war carried
jn by him and his colleague Randolph against the English,
Bcationed at Linthaughlee, near Jedburgh. He was resting
himself and his men, after the toils of many days' fighting-
marches through Teviotdale ; and, according to his custom,
had walked round the tents, previous to retiring to the unquiet
rest of a soldier's bed. He stood for a few minutes at the
entrance to his tent, contemplating the scene before him,
rendered more interesting by a clear moon, whose silver
beams fell, in the silence of a night with ut a breath of
wind, calmly on the slumbers of mortals destined t > mix in
the melee of dreadful war, perhaps on the morrow. As he
stood gazing, irresolute whether to retire to rest, or indulge
longer in a train of thought not very suitable to a warrior
who delighted in the spirit-stirring scenes of his profession,
his eye was attracted by the figure of an old woman, who
approached him with a trembling step, leaning on a staff, and
holding in her left hand three English cloth-shaft arrows.

" You are he wha is ca'ed the guid Sir James ?" said the
old woman.

" I am, good woman," replied Sir James. " Why hast
thou wandered from the sutler's camp ?"

" I dinna belang to the camp o' the hoblers," answered
the woman. " I hae been a residenter in Linthaughlee
since the day when King Alexander passed the door o' ray
cottage wi' his bonny French bride, wha was terrified awa frae
Jedburgh by the death's-head whilk appeared to her on the
day o' her marriage. What I hae suffered sin' that day,"
(looking at the arrows in her hand,) " lies atween me an'
heaven."

" Some of your sons killed in the wars, I presume," said
Sir James.

" Ye hae guessed a pairt o' my waes," replied the woman.
" That arrow" (holding out one of the three) " carries on
its point the bluid o' my first born — that is stained wi' the
stream that poured frae the heart o' my second — and that is
red wi' the gore in which my youngest weltered, as he gae
up the life that made me childless. They were a' shot by
English hands, in different armies, in different battles. ^ I
am an honest woman, and wish to return to the English
what belangs to the English ; but that in the same fashion in
which they were sent. The Black Douglas has the strongest
arm an' the surest e'e in auld Scotland ; an' wha can exe-
cute my commission better than he ?"

" I do not use the bow, good woman," replied Sir James
" I love the grasp of the dagger or the battle-axe. You
must apply to some other individual to return your arrows.'
" I canna tak them hame again," said the woman, laying
them down at the feet of Sir James. " Ye'll see me again
on St James' E'en."

The old woman departed as she said these words. Sir
James took up the arrows, and placed them in an empty
quiver that lay amongst his baggage. He retired to rest
but not to sleep. The figure of the old woman, and her
strange request, occupied his thoughts, and produced trains
of meditation which ended in nothing but restlessness am
disquietude. Getting up by daybreak, he met a messenger
at the entry to his tent, who informed him that Sir Thomas

de Richmont, with a force of ten thousand men, had crossed
the Borders, and would pass through a narrow defile which
he mentioned, where he could be attacked with great ad-
vantage. Sir James gave instant orders to march to the
spot ; and, with that genius for scheming for which he was
so remarkable, commanded his men to twist together the
young birch trees on either side of the passage, to prevent
the escape of the enemy. This finished, he concealed his
archers in a hollow way, near the gorge of the pass. The
enemy came up ; and, when their ranks were embarrassed
by the narrowness of the road, and it was impossible for the
cavalry to act with effect, Sir James rushed upon them at
the head of his horsemen ; and the archers, suddenly dis-
covering themselves, poured in a flight of arrows on the
confused soldiers, and put the whole army to flight. In the
heat of the onset, Douglas killed Sir Thomas de Richmont
with his dagger.

Not long after this, Edmund de Cailon, a Knight of Gas-
cony, and governor of Berwick, and who had been heard to
vaunt that he had sought the famous Black Knight, but
could not find him, was returning to England, loaded with
plunder, from an inroad on Teviotdale. Sir James thought
it a pity that a Gascon's vaunt should be heard unpunished
in Scotland, and made long forced marches to satisfy the
desire of the foreign Knight, by giving him a sight of the
dark countenance he had made a subject of reproach. He
soon succeeded in gratifying both himself and the Gascon.
Coming up in his terrible manner, he called to Cailon to
stop, and, before he proceeded into England, receive the re-
spects of the Black Knight he had come to find, but hitherto
had found not. The Gascon's vaunt was now changed ; but
shame supplied the place of courage, and he ordered his
men to receive Douglas' attack. Sir James sought assidu-
ously his enemy, and experienced the difficulty of finding
him, that had been imputed to himself. He at last suc-
ceeded ; and a single combat ensued, of a most desperate
character ; but who ever escaped the arm of Douglas, when
fairly opposed to him in personal conflict ? Cailon was
killed— he had met the Black Knight at last. " So much,"
cried Sir James, " for the vaunt of a Gascon!"

Similar in every respect to the fate of Cailon, was that of
Sir Ralph Neville. He, too, on hearing the great fame of
Douglas' prowess, from some of de Cailon's fugitive soldiers,
openly boasted that he would fight with the Scottish Knight,
if he would come and shew his banner before Berwick.
Sir James heard the boast, and rejoiced in it. He marched
to that town, and caused his men to ravage the country in
front of the battlements, and burn the villages. Neville
left Berwick with a strong body of men ; and, stationing him-
self on a high ground, waited till the rest of the Scots
should disperse to plunder; but Douglas called in his de-
tachment, and attacked the Knight. After a desperate con-
flict, in which many were slain, Douglas, as was his custom,
succeeded in bringing the leader to a personal encounter
and the skill of the Scottish knight was again successful.
Neville was slain, and his men utterly discomfited.

Having retired one night to his tent to take some rest
after so much pain and toil, Sir James Douglas was sur-
prised by the reappearance of the old woman whom he
had seen at Linthaughlee.

"This is the feast o' St James," said she, as she ap-
proached him. "I said I wad see ye again this nicht,
an' I'm as guid's my word. Hae ye returned the arrows I
left wi' ye to the English wha sent them to the hearts o'
my sons?"

*" No," replied Sir James. " I told ye I did not fight
with the bow. Wherefore do ye importune me thus ?"

« Give me back the arrows, then," said the woman.

Sir James went to bring the quiver in which be J
placed them. On taking them out, he was surprised
find that they were all broken through the middle.

144

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"How has this happened?" said he. "I put these
arrows in this quiver entire, and now they are broken."

" The weird is fulfilled !" cried the old woman, laughing
eldrichly, and clapping her hands. " That broken shaft
cam frae a soldier o' Richmont's ; that frae ane o' Gallon's ;
and that frae ane o' Neville's. They are a' dead, an' I am
revenged !"

The old woman then departed, scattering, as she went,
the broken fragments of the arrows on the floor of the
tent.

FALSEHOOD REPROVED.

THE following anecdote of the Rebellion was at one time
current in Maxwellton, and generally believed. — A widow
of the name of Janet Brown, residing there, some con-
nection of the Orchardtowns in the Stewartry, thought that
she could not do justice to the love she bore the " bonny
Prince" otherwise than by sending her son — a young man, a
slater by trade, and called John after his father, who
followed the same occupation — to fight for the descendant
of our old kings, and help to place him on the throne. The
young man, who neither felt the enthusiasm, nor could per-
ceive the rationale of the feeling with which his mother
was inspired, felt no great love for the task ; but, having
been bribed by a small sum of money given him by Sir
Thomas Maxwell, and blown up with large hopes of rising
to eminence in the event of the Prince's success, he agreed
to put on the bonnet and badge, and to "follow Prince
Charlie." The new-born valour of the slater, like that of
all the artisans who espoused the same cause, was destined
to a severe trial and a rapid decrease. At the battle of
Oulloden he fought at first with some spirit, and then fled,
leaving all his accoutrements, with the exception of a small
dagger, which he retained for the purpose of self-defence,
in a field not far from the scene of his disgrace. The
impetus of terror had been so strong, that he had gone
over a score of miles before he began to reflect on the
best means of escaping from his foes ; and now he was
satisfied that the advantage he possessed from the
nature of his occupation — the capability of walking or
sleeping on the house-tops, like the Pharisees of old — might
be turned into the means of his salvation. Without stop-
ping he hurried on to Maxwellton, where he arrived about
nightfall, and his familiarity with the roof of the house
Inhere his mother lived — occupying only a small garret,
/rom the necessity of her limited means — suggested that
situation as the best calculated for concealment, until the
rage of pursuit was over, and he could again follow his
ordinary avocations. Getting unobserved to the back of
the house, he. by means of a skylight, which opened from
the top of the circular staircase, got to the roof, where
he felt himself perfectly at home, . and in the enjoyment
of as much security as if he had been in the back settle-
ments of America. By taking off his shoes, and walk-
ing lightly along the slates, he could look down on his
aged mother, who was, doubtless, occupied with thoughts
of her son, who was fighting at Culloden, or perhaps lying
dead on the bloody field; but Brown knew the nature
of his parent too well to entrust her with the secret of
his place of concealment — a fact which she would have
told instantly to her neighbours, with that addition which
would have made it go like wildfire, that it was a great secret,
and was not to be divulged. His self-denial in this respect
was, however, wonderful, considering that he had scarcely
tasted meat since he came from Culldden, and was therefore
labouring under hunger, cold, and fatigue, all of which
might have been removed or ameliorated, by the assistance
of his mother, and the refuge of her dwelling, into which
he might have descended through the skylight. If she was
ignorant of his proceedings, he was as ignorant of hers; for

she had been, during the day and evening, tmsily engage^
in making the people believe that her son had not engaged
actively for the Prince, but had repented and returned to
his allegiance to King George. Several officers from Dum-
fries had called at her house with a view to catch the rebel,
and at the very moment when Brown was loo-king deli-
berately down through the skylight window, calculating
how he could reach with his dagger a tempting loaf of bread
that lay on a shelf, he saw enter a sheriff's beagle, who
soon engaged with his parent in earnest conversation. The
officer insisted that her son was not in the house, and she,
though a godly woman, not only denied that he was there, but
alleged (laying her hand on her big Bible) that he had never
engaged in the Rebellion at all. This act, on the part of his
parent, astonished the son : his mother had told a lie, though
all the energies of her life had been directed towards inculcat-
ing good principles on her son, and, above all, a love of strict
truth in everything he said or did. So much had he been
impressed with the importance of veracity, that he himself,
if taken, would not have denied (even if that would have
saved him) that he had been in the rebel ranks ; and yet
the very parent who had done him this good service, had
swerved from her own principles, and sealed a lie by an
appeal to holy writ. The circumstance could only be
accounted for by the love sue bore to him ; but it is not too
much to say, that it produced to him as much uneasiness
as his own danger. Continuing his examination, he saw
the officer depart ; and, in a short time afterwards, the good
widow, on retiring to bed, required to perform her evening
devotion. She got upon her knees for this purpose ; but
the pangs of remorse, for the falsehood she had told, pre-
vented her for a time from uttering her prayer. At last
she succeeded in getting utterance, and began to ask for-
giveness of heaven for the great sin she had committed
that night, in denying that her son had engaged in the
Rebellion ; she then proceeded to return thanks for the daily
bread with which, notwithstanding of her sins, she had
been blessed ; and strongly, and with tears, declared her
utter unworthiness of the gift. She had proceeded so far,
when, as she turned round her eyes, filled with repentant
tears, she saw that very loaf for which she had returned
and was still returning thanks, in the act of gradually
moving from the shelf towards the skylight, and in a mo-
ment disappear, without the assistance of mortal hand, or
any other lifting or suspending power ! In what manner
could heaven better declare that her repentance was not
registered above ? The gift was taken back to the place
from whence it came, because she had lied, and attempted
inconsistently to return thanks for that of which she was so
unworthy. The celestial light broke in upon her in a mo-
ment. Starting to her feet, she flew out of the house ; and
Brown sat quietly down on the roof to enjoy the loaf,
which, with his dagger, he had removed from the shelf foi
the purpose of allaying his hunger. He remarked that his
mother did not return to her house that night ; and, sus-
pecting that he was in dangerous quarters, descended in the
morning, and removed himself to a greater distance. After
the heat of pursuit was over, he returned ; and heard.
" many a time and oft," his mother relate how heaven had
interfered to punish the crime she had committed, in de-
nying, on the faith of holy writ, that her son had been
engaged in the ranks of Prince Charles. Brown was too
prudent to say a word of the true cause ; for, a great lover
of truth himself, he was pained by the falsehood of his
mother, which had been so strangely cured.

W ILS ON'S

, arratrtttonarB, an& Xmagtnatft*

AND OF SCOTLAND.

RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS.
CHAPTER I.

Wear we not graven on our hearts
The name of Robert Burns !— American Poet.

THE degrees shorten as we proceed from the higher to the
lower latitudes — the years seem to shorten in a much greater
ratio as we pass onward through life. We are almost dis-
posed to question whether the brief period of storms and
foul weather that floats over us with such dream-like rapi-
dity, and the transient season of flowers and sunshine that
seems almost too short for enjoyment, be at all identical
with the long summers and still longer winters of our boy-
hood, when day after day and week after week stretched
away in dim perspective, till lost in the obscurity of an al-
most inconceivable distance. Young as I was, I had already
passed the period of life when we wonder how it is that the
fears should be described as short and fleeting ; and it seemed
as if I had stood but yesterday beside the deathbed of the
unfortunate Ferguson, though the flowers of four summers
and the snows of four Avinters had now been shed over his
grave.

My prospects in life had begun to brighten. I served in
the capacity of mate in a large West India trader, the
master of which, an elderly man of considerable wealth, was
on the eve of quitting the sea ; and the owners had already
determined that I should suceeed him in the charge. But
fate had ordered it otherwise. Our seas were infested at
this period by American privateers — prime sailors and
strongly armed ; and when homeward bound from Jamaica
with a valuable cargo, we were attacked and captured when
within a day's sailing of Ireland, by one of the most formi-
dable of the class. Vain as resistance might have been
deemed — for the force of the American was altogether over-
powering— and though our master, poor old man ! and three
of the crew, had fallen by the first broadside, we had yet
stood stiffly by our guns, and were only overmastered, when,
after falling foul of the enemy, we were boarded by a party
of thrice our strength and number. The Americans, irri-
tated by our resistance, proved, on this occasion, no generous
enemies ; we were stripped and heavily ironed, and, two days
after, were set ashore on the wild coast of Connaught, with-
out a single change of dress, or a single sixpence to bear us
by the way.

I was sitting, on the following night, beside the turf fire of
a hospitable Irish peasant, when a seafaring man, whom I
had sailed with about two years before, entered the cabin.
The meeting was equally unexpected on either side. My
acquaintance was the master of a smuggling lugger then on
the coast ; and on acquainting him with the details of my
disaster, and the state of destitution to which it had reduced
me, he kindly proposed that I should accompany him on his
voyage to the west coast of Scotland, for which he was then
on the eve of sailing. " You will run some little risk," he
said, " as the companion of a man who has now been thrice
outlawed for firing on his Majesty's flag ; but I know your
proud heart will prefer the danger of bad company at its
worst to the alternative of begging your way home." He
judged rightlv. Before daybreak, we had lost sight of land,
123. 'VOL. Ill

and in four days more, we could discern the precipitous
shores of Carnck stretching in a dark line along the horizon,
and the hills of the interior rising thin and blue behind, like
a volume of clouds. A considerable part of our cargo, which
consisted mostly of tea and spirits, was consigned to an Ayr
trader, who had several agents in the remote parish of Kirk-
oswald, which at this period afforded more facilities for car-
rying on the contraband trade than any other on the western
coast of Scotland ; and, in a rocky bay of the parish, we
proposed unlading on the following night. It was necessary,
however, that the several agents, who were yet ignorant of
our arrival, should be prepared to meet with us ; and, on
volunteering my service for the purpose, I was landed near
the ruins of the ancient castle of Turnberry, once the seat
of Robert the Bruce.

I had accomplished my object ; it was evening, and a
party of countrymen were sauntering among the cliffs, wait-
ing for nightfall and the appearance of the lugger. There
are splendid caverns on the coast of Kirkoswald; and, to
while away the time, I had descended to the shore by a
broken and precipitous path, with a view of exploring what
are termed the Caves of Colzean, by far the finest in this
part of Scotland. The evening was of great beauty : the
sea spread out from the cliffs to the far horizon, like the
sea of gold and crystal described by the Prophet ; and its
warm orange hues so harmonized with those of the sky, that,
passing over the dimly-defined line of demarcation, the whole
upper and nether expanse seemed but one glorious firma-
ment, with the dark Ailsa, like a thunder-cloud, sleeping in
the midst. The sun was hastening to his setting, and threw
his strong red light on the wall of rock which, loftier and
more imposing than the walls of even the mighty Babylon,
stretched onward along the beach, headland after headland,
till the last sank abruptly in the far distance, and only the
wide ocean stretched beyond. I passed along the insulated
piles of cliff that rise thick along the basis of the precipices
— now in sunshine, now in shadow — till I reached the open-
ing of one of the largest caves. The roof rose more than
fifty feet over my head — a broad stream of light, that seemed
redder and more fiery from the surrounding gloom, slanted
inwards, and, as I paused in the opening, my shadow, length-
ened and dark, fell athwart the floor — a slim and narrow
bar of black — till lost in the gloom of the inner recess. There
was a wild and uncommon beauty in the scene that power-
fully affected the imagination ; and I stood admiring it in
that delicious dreamy mood in which one can forget all but
the present enjoyment, when I was. roused to a recollection
of the business of the evening by the sound of a footfall
echoing from within. It seemed approaching by a sort of
cross passage in the rock, and, in a moment after, a young
man, one of the country people whom I had left among the
cliffs above, stood before me. He wore a broad Lowland
bonnet, and his plain homely suit of coarse russet seemed to
bespeak him a peasant of perhaps the poorest class ; but, as
he emerged from the gloom, and the red light fell full on his
countenance, I saw an indescribable something in the ex-
pression that in an instant awakened my curiosity. He was
rather above the middle size, of a frame the most muscular
and compact I have almost ever seen, and there was a blended

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

mixture of elasticity and firmness in his tread that to
one accustomed, as I had been, to estimate the physical
capabilities of men, gave evidence of a union of immense
personal strength with great activity. My first idea regard-
ing the stranger — and I know not how it should have struck
me — was that of a very powerful frame animated by a double
portion of vitality. The red light shone full on hiu face,
and gave a ruddy tinge to the complexion, which I after-
wards found it wanted — for he was naturally of a darker
hue than common ; but there was no mistaking the expres-
sion of the large flashing eyes, the features that seemed so
thoroughly cast in the mould of thought, and of the broad,
full, perpendicular forehead. Such, at least, was the im-
pression on my mind, that I addressed him with more of the
courtesy which my earlier pursuits had rendered familiar to
me than of the bluntness of my adopted profession. " This
sweet evening," I said, " is by far too fine for our lugger ; I
question whether, in these calms, we need expect her before
midnight ; but 'tis well, since wait we must, that 'tis in a
place where the hours may pass so agreeably." The stranger
good-humouredly acquiesced in the remark, and we sat
down together on the dry, waterworn pebbles, mixed with
fragments of broken shells and minute pieces of wreck, that
strewed the opening of the cave.

" Was there ever a lovelier evening!" he exclaimed ; " the
waters above the firmament seem all of a piece with the
waters below. And never surely was there a scene of wilder
beauty. Only look inwards, and see how the stream of red
light seems bounded by the extreme darkness, like a river
by its banks, and how the reflection of the ripple goes wav-
ing in golden curls along the roof !"

" I have been admiring the scene for the last half hour/'
I said ; " Shakspeare speaks of a music that cannot be heard,
and I have not yet seen a place where one might better learn
to comment on the passage."

Both the thought and the phrase seemed new to him.

" A music that cannot be heard !" he repeated ; and then,
after a momentary pause, " you allude to the fact," he con-
tinued, " that sweet music, and forms such as these, of silent
beauty and grandeur, awaken in the mind emotions of nearly
the same class. There is something truly exquisite in the
concert of to-night."

I muttered a simple assent.

" See," he continued, " how finely these insulated piles
of rock that rise in so many combinations of form along the
beach, break and diversify the red light, and how the glossy
leaves of the ivy glisten in the hollows of the precipices
above ! And then, how the sea spreads away to the far
horizon, a glorious pavement of crimson and gold ! — and how
the dark Ailsa rises in the midst, like the little cloud seen
by the Prophet ! The mind seems to enlarge, the heart to
expand, in the contemplation of so much of beauty and
grandeur. The soul asserts its due supremacy. And, oh !
'tis surely well that we can escape from those little cares of
life which fetter down our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes,
to the wants and the enjoyments of our animal existence ;
and that, amid the grand and the sublime of nature, we may
learn from the spirit within us that we are better than the
beasts that perish 1"

I looked up to the animated countenance and flashing eyes
of my companion, and wondered what sort of a peasant it
was I had met with. " Wild and beautiful as the scene
is," I said, " you will find, even among those who arrogate
to themselves the praise of wisdom and learning, men who
regard such scenes as mere errors of nature. Burnet
would have told you that a Dutch landscape, without hill,
rock, or valley, must be the perfection of beauty, seeing
that Paradise itself could have furnished nothing better."

" I hold Milton as higher authority on the subject," said
my companion, " than all the philosophers who ever wrote.
Beauty, in a tame unvaried flat, where a man would know

his country only by the milestones ! A very Dutch Para-
dise, truly !"

" But would not some of your companions above," I
asked, " deem the scene as much an error of nature as
Burnet himself? They could pass over these stubborn rocks
neither plough nor harrow."

" True," he replied — " there is a species of small wisdom
in the world that often constitutes the extremest of its
folly ; a wisdom that would change the entire nature of
good, had it but the power, by vainly endeavouring to ren-
der that good universal. It would convert the entire earth
into one vast corn field, and then find that it had ruined the
species by its improvement."

" We of Scotland can hardly be ruined in that way for
an age to come," I said. " But I am not sure that I
understand you. Alter the very nature of good in the
attempt to render it universal ! How ?"

" I daresay you have seen a graduated scale," said my
companion, " exhibiting the various powers of the different
musical instruments, and observed how some of limited
scope cross only a few of the divisions, and how others
stretch nearly from side to side. 'Tis but a poor truism,
perhaps, to say that similar differences in scope and powei
obtain among men — that there are minds who could not
join in the concert of to-night — who could see neither beauty
nor grandeur amid these wild cliffs and caverns, or in that
glorious expanse of sea and sky ; and that, on the other
hand, there are minds so finely modulated — minds that
sweep so broadly across the scale of nature, that there is
no object, however minute, no breath of feeling, however
faint, but what it awakens their sweet vibrations — the
snow-flake falling in the stream, the daisy of the field,
the conies of the rock, the hysop of the wall. Now, the
vast and various frame of nature is adapted not to the
lesser but to the larger mind. It spreads on and around us
in all its rich and magnificent variety, and finds the full
portraiture of its Proteus-like beauty in the mirror of genius
alone. Evident, however, as this may seem, we find a sort
of levelling principle in the inferior order of minds, and
which, in fact, constitutes one of their grand characteristics — <
a principle that would fain abridge the scale to their own
narrow capabilities — that would cut down the vastness of
nature to suit the littleness of their own conceptions and
desires, and convert it into one tame, uniform, mediocre
good, which would be good but to themselves alone, and
ultimately not even that."

" I think I can now understand you," I said : " you de-
scribe a sort of swinish wisdom that would convert the
world into one vast sty. For my own part, I have tra-
velled far enough to know the value of a blue hill, and
would not willingly lose so much as one of these landmarks
of our mother land, by which kindly hearts in distant coun-
tries love to remember it."

" I daresay we are getting fanciful," rejoined my com-
panion ; ;'but certainly, in man's schemes of improvement,
both physical and moral, there is commonly a littleness
and want of adaptation to the general good that almost
always defeats his aims. He sees and understands but a
minute portion — it is always some partial good he would
introduce ; and thus he but destroys the just proportions of
a nicely regulated system of things by exaggerating one of
the parts. I passed, of late, through a richly cultivated
district of country, in which the agricultural improver had
done his utmost. Never were there finer fields, more con-
venient steadings, crops of richer promise, a better regulated
system of production. Corn and cattle had mightily im-
proved ; but what had man, the lord of the soil, become ?
Is not the body better than food, and life than raiment ?
If that decline for which all other things exist, it surely
matters little that all these other things prosper. And
here though the corn, the cattle, the fields, the steadings

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had improved, man had sunk. There were but two classes
in the district : a few cold-hearted speculators, who united
what isworst in the character of the landed proprietor and the
merchant — these were your gentlemen farmers ; and a class
of degraded helots, little superior to the cattle they tended —
these were your farm servants. And for two such extreme
classes — necessary result of such a state of things — had this
unfortunate, though highly eulogized district, parted with
a moral, intelligent, high-minded peasantry — the true boast
and true riches of their country."

" I have, I think, observed something like what you
describe," I said.

" I give," he replied, " but one instance of a thousand.
But mark how the sun's lower disk has just reached the line
of the horizon, and how the long level rule of light stretches
to the very innermost recess of the cave ! It* darkens as the
orb sinks. And see ho\v the gauze-like shadows creep on
from the sea, film after film ! — and now they have reached
the ivy that mantles round the castle of The Bruce. Are
you acquainted with Barbour?"

" Well," I said; " a spirited, fine old fellow, who loved his
country and did much for it. -I could once repeat all his
chosen passages. Do you remember how he describes King
Robert's rencounter with the English knight ?"

My companion sat up erect, and, clenching his fist, be-
gan repeating the passage, with a power and animation that
seemed to double its inherent energy and force.

" Glorious old Barbour !" ejaculated he, when he had
finished the description ; " many a heart has beat all the
higher when the bale-fires were blazing, through the tutor-
age of thy noble verses ! Blind Harry, too — what has not
his country owed to him !"

" Ah, they have long since been banished from our po-
pular literature," I said ; " and yet Blind Harry's 'Wallace,'
as Hailes tells us, was at one time the very Bible of the
Scotch. But love of country seems to be getting old-
fashioned among us, and we have become philosophic
enough to set up for citizens of the world."

" All cold pretence," rejoined my companion ; " an effect
sf that small wisdom we have just been decrying. Cosmo-
politism, as we are accustomed to define it, can be no
virtue of the present age, nor yet of the next, nor perhaps
for centuries to come. Even when it shall have attained
to its best, and when it may be most safely indulged in, it
is according to the nature of man, that, instead of running
counter to the love of country, it should exist as but a wider
diffusion of the feeling, and form, as it were, a wider circle
round it. It is absurdity itself to oppose the love of our
country to that of our race."

" Do I rightly understand you ?" I said. " You look for-
ward to a time when the patriot may safely expand into the
citizen of the world ; but, in the present age, he would do
well, you think, to confine his energies within the inner
circle of country."

" Decidedly," he rejoined; "man should love his species
at all times, but it is ill with him if, in times like the pre-
sent, he loves not his country more. The spirit of war and
aggression is yet abroad — there are laws to be established,
rights to be defended, invaders to be repulsed, tyrants to be
deposed. And who but the patriot is equal to these things?
VVe are not yet done with the Bruces, the Wallaces, the Tells,
the Washingtons — yes, the Washingtons, whether they
fight for or against us — we are not yet done with them.
The cosmopolite is but a puny abortion — a birth ere the
natural time, that at once endangers the life and betrays the
weakness of the country that bears him. Would that he
were sleeping in his elements till his proper time I But we
are getting ashamed of our country, of our language, our
manners, our music, out literature ; nor shall we have
enough of the old spirit left us to assert our liberties or
fight our battles. Oh, for some Barbour or Blind Harry of

the present day, to make us, once more, proud of our
country !"

I quoted the famous saying of Fletcher of Salton — <f Allow
me to make the songs of a country, and I will allow you to
make its laws."

But here," I said, " is our lugger stealing round Turn-

•erry Head. We shall soon part, perhaps for ever, and I

would fain know with whom I have spent an hour so aoree-

ably, and have some name to remember him bv. My°own

name is Matthew Lindsay; I am a native of Irvine."

" And I," said the young man, rising and cordially grasp-
£gu thf Proffered ha"d, " am a native of Ayr; my name ia
Robert Bums.

CHAPTER II.

If friendless, low, we meet together,

Then, sir, your hand— my friend and brother !

Dedication to G. Hamilton.

A light breeze had risen as the sun sunk, and our lugger,
with all her sails set, came sweeping along the shore. She
had nearly gained the little bay in front of the cave, and
the countrymen from above, to the number of perhaps
twenty, had descended to the beach, when, all of a sudden,
after a shrill whistle, and a brief half minute of commo-
tion among the crew, she wore round and stood out to sea.
I turned to the south, and saw a square-rigged vessel
shooting out from behind one of the rocky headlands, and
then bearing down in a long tack on the smuggler. " The
sharks are upon us," said one of the countrymen, whose
eyes had turned in the same direction — " we shall have no
sport to-night." We stood lining the beach in anxious
curiosity ; the breeze freshened as the evening fell ; and
the lugger, as she lessened to our sight, went leaning
against the foam in a long bright furrow, that, catching the
last light of evening, shone like the milky way amid the
blue. Occasionally we could see the flash, and hear the
booming of a gun from the other vessel ; but the night fell
thick and dark ; the waves too began to lash against the
rocks, drowning every feebler sound in a continuous roar-
ing ; and every trace of both the chase and the chaser dis-
appeared. The party broke up, and I was left standing
alone on the beach, a little nearer home, but in every other
respect in quite the same circumstances as when landed by
my American friends on the wild coast of Connaught.
" Another of Fortune's freaks !" I ejaculated ; " but 'tis well
she can no longer surprise me."

A man stepped out in the darkness as I spoke, from
beside one of the rocks ; it was the peasant Burns, my
acquaintance of the earlier part of the evening.

" I have waited, Mr Lindsay," he said, " to see whether
some of the country folks here, who have homes of their own
to invite you to, might not have brought you along with
them. But I am afraid you must just be content to pass the
night with me. I can give you a share of my bed and
my supper, though both, I am aware, need many apologies."
I made a suitable acknowledgment, and we ascended the
cliff together. " I live, when at home with my parents,"
said my companion, " in the inland parish of Tarbolton ; but,
for the last two months, I have attended school here, and
lodge with an old widow woman in the village. To-morrow,
as harvest is fast approaching, I return to my father."

" And I," I replied, " shall have the pleasure of accom-
panying you in at least the early part of your journey,
on my way to Irvine, where my mother still lives."

We reached the village, and entered a little cottage, that
presented its gable to the street, and its side to one of the
narrower lanes.

" I must introduce you to my landlady," said my com-
panion, " an excellent, kind-hearted old woman, with a fund
of honest Scotch pride and shrewd good sense in her com-
position, and with the mother as strong in her heart a

148

TALES OF THE BORDERS

ever, though she lost the last of her children more than
twenty years ago."

We found the good woman sitting beside a small but
Very cheerful fire. The hearth was newly swept, and the
floor newly sanded ; and, directly fronting her, there was
an empty chair, which seemed to have been drawn to its
place in the expectation of some one to fill it.

" You are going to leave me, Robert, my bairn," said
the woman, " an' I kenna how I sail ever get on without
you ; I have almost forgotten, sin, you came to live with me,
that I have neither children nor husband," On seeing me,
she stopped short.

" An acquaintance," said rny companion, " whom I have
made bold to bring with me for the night ; but you must
not put yourself to any trouble, mother ; he is, I daresay,
as much accustomed to plain fare as myself. Only, how-
ever, we must get an additional pint of yillfrom the clachan;
you know this is my last evening with you, and was to
be a merry one at any rate." The woman looked me full
in the face.

" Matthew Lindsay !" she exclaimed — " can you have for-
gotten your poor old aunt Margaret !" 1 grasped her hand.

" Dearest aunt, this is surely most unexpected ! How
could I have so much as dreamed you were within a hun-
dred miles of me ?" Mutual congratulation ensued.

" This," she said, turning to my companion, " is the
nephew I have so often told you about, and so often wished
to bring you acquainted with. He is, like yourself, a great
reader and a great thinker, and there is no need that your
proud, kindly heart should be jealous of him ; for he has
been ever quite as poor, and maybe the poorer of the two."
After still more of greeting and congratulation, the young
man rose,

n The night is dark, mother," he said, " and the road
to the clachan a rough one ; besides you and your kinsman
will have much to say to one another. I shall just slip
out to the clachan for you ; and you shall both tell me
on my return whether I am not a prime judge of ale."

" The kindest heart, Matthew, that ever lived," said my
relative, as he left the house ; " ever since he came to Kirk-
oswald, he has been both son and daughter to me, and I
shall feel twice a widow when he goes away."

" I am mistaken, aunt," I said, " if he be not the strongest
minded man I ever saw. Be assured he stands high among
the aristocracy of nature, whatever may be thought cf him
in Kirkoswald. There is a robustness of intellect, joined
to an overmastering force of character, about him, which I
have never yet seen equalled, though I have been intimate
with at least one very superior mind, and with hundreds of
the class who pass for men of talent. I have been thinking,
ever since I met with him, of the William Tells and Wil-
liam Wallaces of history — men who, in those times of
trouble which unfix the foundations of society, step out from
their obscurity to rule the destiny of nations."

" I was ill about a month ago," said my relative — " so very
ill that I thought I was to have done with the world alto*-
gether ; and Robert was both nurse and physician to me —
he kindled my fire, too, every morning, and sat up beside
me sometimes for the greater part of the night. What
wonder I should love him as my own child ? Had your
cousin Henry been spared to me, he would now have been
much about Robert's age."

The conversation passed to other matters, and in about
half an hour, my new friend entered the room ; when we sat
down to a homely, but cheerful repast.

" I have been engaged in argument, for the last twenty
minutes, with our parish schoolmaster," he said — " a shrewd,
sensible man, and a prime scholar, but one of the most de-
termined Calvinists I ever knew. Now, there is some-
thing, Mr Lindsay, in abstract Calvinism, that dissatisfies
and distresses me ; and yet, I must confess, there is so much

of good in the working of the system, that I would ill like
to sec it supplanted by any other. I am convinced, for in-
stance, there is nothing so efficient in teaching the bulk of a
people to think as a Calvinistic church."

" Ah, Robert," said my aunt, "• it does meikle mair nor
that. Look round you, my bairn, an' see if there be a kirk
in which puir sinful creatures have mair comfort in their
sufferings or mair hope in their deaths."

" Dear mother," said my companion, " I like well enough
to dispute with the schoolmaster, but I must have no
dispute with you. I know the heart is everything in these
matters, and yours is much wiser than mine."

" There is something in abstract Calvinism," he continued,
" that distresses me. In almost all our researches we arrive
at an ultimate barrier, which interposes its Avail of darkness
between us and the last grand truth, in the series which we
had trusted was to prove a master-key to the whole. We
dwell in a sort of Goshen — there is light in our immediate
neighbourhood, and a more than Egyptian darkness all
around j and as every Hebrew must have known that th(
hedge of cloud which he saw resting on the landscape, was
a boundary not to things themselves, but merely to his view
of things — for beyond there were cities, and plains, and
oceans, and continents — so we in like manner must know
that the barriers of which I speak exist only in relation to
the faculties which we employ, not to the objects on which we
employ them. And yet, notwithstanding this consciousness
that we are necessarily and irremediably the bound prisoners
of ignorance, and that all the great truths lie outside our
prison, we can almost be content that, in most cases, it
should be so — not, however, with regard to those great
unattainable truths which lie in the track of Calvinism.
They seem too important to be wanted, and yet want them
we must — and we beat our very heads against the cruel
barrier which separates us from them."

" I am afraid I hardly understand you," I said ; — " d«
assist me by some instance or illustration."

" You are acquainted," he replied, " with the Scripture
doctrine of Predestination, and, in thinking over it, in con-
nection with the destinies of man, it must have struck you
that, however much it may interfere with our fixed notions
of the goodness of Deity, it is thoroughly in accordance
with the actual condition of our race. As far as we can
know of ourselves and the things around us, there seems,
through the will of Deity — for to what else can we refer it ?
— a fixed, invariable connection between what we term
cause and effect. Nor do we demand of any class of mere
effects, in the inanimate or irrational world, that they should
regulate themselves otherwise than the causes which produce
them have determined. The roe and the tiger pursue, un-
questioned, the instincts of their several natures ; the cork
rises, and the stone sinks ; and no one thinks of calling
either to account for movements so opposite. But it is not
so with the family of man ; and yet our minds, our bodies,
our circumstances, are but combinations of effects, over the
causes of which we have no control. We did not choose a
country for ourselves, nor yet a condition in life — nor did we
determine our modicum of intellect, or our amount of pas-
sion— we did not impart its gravity to the weightier part of
our nature, or give expansion to the lighter — nor are our
instincts of our own planting. How, then, being thus as
much the creatures of necessity as the denizens of the wild
and forest — as thoroughly under the agency of fixed, unal-
terable causes, as the dead matter around us — why are we
yet the subjects of a retributive system, and accountable for
all our actions ?"

" You quarrel with Calvinism," I said; "and seem one
of the most thorough-going necessitarians I ever knew."

" Not so," he replied ; " though my judgment cannot
disprove these conclusions, my heart cannot acquiesce in
them — though I see that I am as certainly the subject of

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

149

laws that exist and operate independent of my will, as the
dead matter around me, I feel, with a certainty quite as
great, that I am a free, accountable creature. It is accord-
ing to the scope of my entire reason that 1 should deem
myself bound — it is according to the constitution of my
whole nature that I should feel myself free. And in this
consists the great, the fearful problem — a problem which
both reason and revelation propound ; but the truths which
can alone solve it, seem to lie beyond the horizon of dark-
ness— and we vex ourselves in vain. 'Tis a sort of moral
asymptotes ; but its lines, instead of approaching through all
space without meeting, seem receding through all space, and
yet meet."

" Robert, my bairn/' said my aunt, " I fear you are
wasting your strength on these mysteries to your ain hurt.
Did ye no see, in the last storm, when ye staid out among
the caves till cock-crow, that the bigger and stronger the
wave, the mair was it broken against the rocks? — it's just
thus wi' the pride o' man's understanding, when he measures
it against the dark things o' God. An', yet, it's sae ordered
that the same wonderful truths which perplex an' cast down
the proud reason, should delight an' comfort the humble
heart. I am a lone, puir woman, Robert. Bairns and hus-
band have gone down to the grave, one by one ; an', now,
for twenty weary years, I have been childless an' a widow.
But trow ye that the puir lone woman wanted a guard an'
a comforter, an' a provider, through a' the lang mirk nichts,
an' a' the cauld scarce winters o' these twenty years ? No,
my bairn — I kent that Himsel was wi' me. 1 kent it by
the provision He made, an' the care Pie took, an' the joy He
gave. An' how, think you, did He comfort me maist ?
Just by the blessed assurance that a' my trials an' a' my
sorrows were nae hasty chance matters, but dispensations for
my guid, an' the guid o' those he took to himsel, that, in
the perfect love and wisdom o' his nature, he had ordained
frae the beginning."

<f Ah, mother," said my friend, after a pause, " you
understand the doctrine far better than I do ! There are,
I find, no contradictions in the Calvinism of the heart."

CHAPTER III.

Ayr, gnrgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods thick 'ning green ;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twined, amorous, round the raptured scene ;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray —
Till, too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

To Mary in Heaven.

We were early on the road together ; the day, though
•somewhat gloomy, was mild and pleasant, and we walked
slowly onward, neither of us in the least disposed to hasten
our parting, by hastening our journey. We had discussed
fifty different topics, and were prepared to enter on fifty
more, when we reached the ancient burgh of Ayr, where
our roads separated.

" I have taken an immense liking to you, Mr Lindsay,"
said my companion, as he seated himself on the parapet
of the old bridge, u and have just bethought me of a
scheme through which I may enjoy your company for,
at least, one night more. The Ayr is a lovely river,
and you tell me you have never explored it. We shall
explore it together this evening, for about ten miles, when
we shall find ourselves at the farm-house of Lochlea.
You may depend on a hearty welcome from my father,
whom, by the way, I wish much to introduce to you, as a
man worth your knowing; and, as I have set my heart
on the scheme, you are surely too good-natured to disap-
point me." Little risk of that, I thought ; I had, in fact,
become thoroughly enamoured of the warm-hearted benevo-

lence, and fascinating conversation ot iny companion, and
acquiesced with the best good-will in the world.

We had threaded the course of the river for several miles.
It runs through a wild pastoral valley, roughened by thickets
of copsewood, and bounded, on either hand, by a line of
swelling, moory hills, with here and there a few irregular
patches of corn, and here and there some little, nest-like
cottage peeping out from among the wood. The clouds,
which, during the morning, had obscured the entire face of
the heavens, were breaking up their array, and the sun was
looking down, in twenty different places, through the open-
ings checkering the landscape with a fantastic, though
lovely carpeting of light and shadow. Before us, there
rose a thick wood, on a jutting promontory, that looked blue
and dark in the shade, as if it wore mourning ; while the
sunlit stream beyond shone through the trunks and branches
like a river of fire. At length the clouds seemed to have
melted in the blue — for there was not a breath of wind to
speed them away — and the sun, now hastening to the west,
shone, in unbroken effulgence, over the wide extent of the
dell, lighting up stream and wood, and field and cottage, in
one continuous blaze of glory. We had walked on in silence
for the last half hour ; but I could sometimes hear my com-
panion muttering as he went ; and when, in passing through
a thicket of hawthorn and honeysuckle, we started from its
perch a linnet that had been filling the air with its melody, I
could hear him exclaim, in a subdued tone of voice, " Bonny,
bonny birdie ! why hasten frae me ? — I wadna skaith a feather
o' yer wing." He turned round to me, and I could see
that his eyes were swimming in moisture.

" Can he be other," he said, " than a good and benevo-
lent God, who gives us moments like these to enjoy ?
Oh, my friend, without these Sabbaths of the soul, that
come to refresh and invigorate it, it would dry up within
us ! How exquisite," he continued, " how entire the sym-
pathy which exists between all that is good and fair in
external nature, and all of good and fair that dwells in our
own ! And, oh, how the heart expands and lightens ! The
world is as a grave to it — a closely-covered grave — and it
shrinks and deadens, and contracts all its holier and more
joyous feelings under the cold, earth-like pressure. But,
amid the grand and lovely of nature — amid these forms and
colours of richest beauty — there is a disinterment, a resur-
rection of sentiment ; the pressure of our earthly part seems
removed, and those senses of the mind, if I may so speak,
which serve to connect our spirits with the invisible world
around us, recover their proper tone, and perform their
proper office."

" Senses of the mind" I said, repeating the phrase ; " the
idea is new to me ; but I think I catch your meaning."

" Yes ; there are — there must be such," he continued,
with growing enthusiasm ; "man is essentially a religious crea-
ture— a looker beyond the grave, from the very constitution
of his mind ; and the sceptic who denies it, is untrue not
merely to the Being who has made and who preserves him,
but to the entire scope and bent of his own nature besides.
Wherever man is — whether he be a wanderer of the wild
forest or still wilder desert, a dweller in some lone isle of
the sea, or the tutored and full-minded denizen of some
blessed land like our own — wherever man is, there is reli-
gion— hopes that look forward and upward — the belief in
an unending existence, and a land of separate souls."

I was carried away by the enthusiasm of my companion,
and felt, for the time, as if my mind had become the mirror
of his. There seems to obtain among men a species of
moral gravitation, analogous, in its principles, to that which
regulates and controls the movements of the planetary sys-
tem. The larger and more ponderous any body, the

greater its attractive force, and the more overpowering its
influence over the lesser bodies which surround it. The
earth we inhabit carries the moon along with it in its course,

150

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

and is itself subject to the immensely more powerful in-
fluence of the sun. And it is thus with character. It is a
law of our nature, as certainly as of the system we inhabit,
that the inferior should yield to the superior, and the lesser
owe its guidance to the greater. I had hitherto wandered
on through life almost unconscious of the existence of this
law, or if occasionally rendered half aware of it, it was only
through a feeling that some secret influence was operating
favourably in my behalf on the common minds around me.
I now felt, however, for the first time, that I had come in
contact with a mind immeasurably more powerful than my
own ; my thoughts seemed to cast themselves into the very
mould — my sentiments to modulate themselves by the very
tone of his. And yet he was but a russet-clad peasant — my
junior by at least eight years — who was returning from
school to assist his father, an humble tacksman, in the labours
of the approaching harvest. But the law of circumstance,
so arbitrary in ruling the destinies of common men, exerts
but a feeble control over the children of genius. The
prophet went forth commissioned by Heaven to anoint a
king over Israel, and the choice fell on a shepherd bay
who was tending his father's flocks in the field.

We had reached a lovely bend of the stream. There was
n semicircular inflection in the steep bank, which waved
over us, from base to summit, with hawthorn and hazle ; and
while one half looked blue and dark in the shade, the other
was lighted up with gorgeous and fiery splendour by the sun,
now fast sinking in the west. The effect seemed magical. A
little grassy platform that stretched between the hanging
xvood and the stream, was whitened over with clothes, that
looked like snow-wreathes in the hollow ; and a young and
beautiful girl watched beside them.

" Mary Campbell !" exclaimed my companion, and, in a
moment, he was at her side, and had grasped both her hands
in his. " How fortunate, how very fortunate I am !" he said ;
" I could not have so much as hoped to have seen you to-night,
and yet here you are . This, Mr Lindsay, is a loved friend of
mine, whom I have known and valued for years ; ever, indeed,
since we herded our sheep together under the cover of one plaid.
Dearest Mary, I have had sad forebodings regarding you for
the whole last month I was in Kirkoswald, and yet, after all
my foolish fears, here you are, ruddier and bonnier than ever."
She was, in truth, a beautiful, sylph-like young woman —
one whom I would have looked at with complacency in any
circumstances ; for who that admires the fair and the lovely
in nature — whether it be the wide-spread beauty of sky and
earth, or beauty in its minuter modifications, as we see it in
the flowers that spring up at our feet, or the butterfly that
flutters over them — who, 1 say, that admires the fair and lovely
in nature can be indifferent to the fairest and loveliest of all
her productions ? As the mistress, however, of by far the
strongest-minded man I ever knew, there was more of scru-
tiny in my glance than usual, and I felt a deeper interest in
her than mere beauty could have awakened. She was, per-
haps, rather below than above the middle size ; but formed
in such admirable proportion that it seemed out of place to
think of size in reference to her at all. Who, in looking at
the Venus de Medicis, asks whether she be tall or short ? The
bust and neck were so exquisitely moulded, that they re-
minded me of Burke's fanciful remark, viz., that our ideas of
beauty originate in our love of the sex, and that we deem
every object beautiful which is described by soft waving
lines, resembling those of the female neck and bosom. Her
feet and arms, which were both bars^ had a statue-like
symmetry, and marble-like whiteness ; but it was on her
expressive and lovely countenance, now lighted up by the
glow of joyous feeling, that nature seemed to have exhausted
her utmost skill. There was a fascinating mixture in the
expression of superior intelligence and child-like simplicity ;
a soft, modest light dwelt in the blue eye ; and in the en-
tire contour and general form of the features, there was a

nearer approach to that union of the straight and the
rounded, which is found in its perfection in only the Grecian
'ace, than is at all common in our northern latitudes, among
;he descendants of either the Celt or the Saxon. I felt,
liowever, as I gazed, that, when lovers meet, the presence of
a third person, however much the friend of either, must
always be less than agreeable.

u Mr Burns," I said, " there is a beautiful eminence a few
hundred yards to the right, from which I am desirous to over-
look the windings of the stream. Do permit me to leave you
for a short half hour, when I shall return ; or, lest I weary you
by my stay, 'twere better, perhaps, you should join me there.
My companion greeted the proposal with a good-humoured
smile of intelligence ; and, plunging into the wood, I left
him with his Mary. The- sun had just set as he joined
me.

" Have you ever been in love, Mr Lindsay ?" he said.

" No, never seriously," I replied. " I am, perhaps, not
naturally of the coolest temperament imaginable ; but the
same fortune that has improved my mind in some little
degree, and given me high notions of the sex, has hitherto
thrown me among only its less superior specimens. I am
now in my eight-and-twentieth year, and I have not yet
met with a woman whom I could love."

" Then you are yet a stranger," he rejoined, " to the
greatest happiness of which our nature is capable. I have
enjoyed more heartfelt pleasure in the company of the young
woman I have just left, than from every other source that has
been opened to me from my childhood till now. Love, my
friend, is the fulfilling of the whole law."

" Mary Campbell did you not call her ?" I said. " She is,
I think, the loveliest creature I have ever seen ; and I am
much mistaken in the expression of her beauty, if her mind
be not as lovely as her person."

" It is, it is," he exclaimed — " the intelligence of an angel
with the simplicity of a child. Oh, the delight of being
thoroughly trusted, thoroughly beloved by one of the loveliest,
best, purest-minded of all God's good creatures ! To feel
that heart beating against my own, and to know that it
beats for me only ! Never have I passed an evening with
my Mary without returning to the world a better, gentler,
wiser man. Love, my friend, is the fulfilling of the whole
law. What are we without it ? — poor, vile, selfish animals ;
our very virtues themselves, so exclusively virtues on our
own behalf as to be well nigh as hateful as our vices.
Nothing so opens and improves the heart, nothing so widens
the grasp of the affections, nothing half so effectually brings
us out of our crust of self, as a happy, well-regulated love
for a pure-minded, affectionate-hearted woman !"

" There is another kind of love of which we sailors see
somewhat," I said, " which is not so easily associated
with good."

" Love !" he replied — " no. Mr Lindsay, that is not the
name. Kind associates with kind in all nature ; and love —
humanizing, heart-softening love — cannot be the companion
of whatever is low, mean, worthless, degrading — the asso-
ciate of ruthless dishonour, cunning, treachery, and violent
death. Even, independent of its amount of evil as a crime,
or the evils still greater than itself which necessarily accom-
pany it, there is nothing that so petrifies the feeling as il-
licit connection."

" Do you seriously think so ?" 1 asked.

" Yes, and I see clearly how it should be so. Neithei
sex is complete of itself — each was made for the other, that,
like the two halves of a hinge, they may become an entire
whole when united. Only think of the Scriptural phrase
one flesh — it is of itself a system of philosophy. Refine-
ment and tenderness are of the woman, strength and dig-
nity of the man. Only observe the effects of a thorough
separation, whether originating in accident or caprice. You
will find the stronger sex lost in the rudenesses of partial

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

151

barbarism ; the gentler wrapt up In some pitiful round of
trivial and unmeaning occupation — dry-nursing puppies, or
making pincushions forposterity. But how much more pitiful
are the effects when they meet amiss — Avhen the humaniz-
ing friend and companion of the man is converted into the
light, degraded toy of an idle hour; the object of a sordid
appetite that lives but for a moment, and then expires in
loathing and disgust ! The better feelings are iced over at
their source, chilled by the freezing and deadening con-
tact— where there is nothing to inspire confidence or solicit
esteem ; and, if these pass not through the first, the inner
circle — that circle within which the social affections are
formed, and from whence they emanate — how can they pos-
sibly flow through the circles which lie beyond ? But here,
Mr Lindsay, is the farm of Lochlea, and yonder brown cot-
tage, beside the three elms, is the dwelling of my parents."

CHAPTER IV.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springi,
That makes her lov'd at home, revered abroad.

Cotters Saturday Nighl.

There was a wide and cheerful circle this evening round the
hospitable hearth of Lochlea. The father of my friend,
patriarchal-looking old man, with a countenance the most
expressive I have almost ever seen, sat beside the wall, on a
large oaken settle, which also served to accommodate a young
man, an occasional visiter of the family, dressed in rather
shabby black, whom I at once set down as a probationer o
divinity. I had my own seat beside him. The brother of my
friend (a lad cast in nearly the same mould of form am
feature, except perhaps that his frame, though muscular anc
strongly set, seemed in the main less formidably robust, anc
his countenance, though expressive, less decidedly intellec-
tual) sat at my side. My friend had drawn in his seat beside
his mother, a well-formed, comely brunette, of about thirty-
eight, whom I might almost have mistaken for his elder
sister ; and two or three younger members of the family were
grouped behind her. The fire blazed cheerily within the
wide and open chimney ; and, throwing its strong light on
the faces and limbs of the circle, sent our shadows nickering
across the rafters and the wall behind. The conversation
was animated and rational, and every one contributed his
share. But I was chiefly interested in the remarks of the
old man, for whom I already felt a growing veneration, and
in those of his wonderfully gifted son.

" Unquestionably, Mr Burns," said the man in black,
addressing the farmer, " politeness is but a very shadow, as
the poet hath it, if the heart be wanting. I saw, to-night,
in a strictly polite family, so marked a presumption of the
lack of that natural affection of which politeness is but the
portraiture and semblance, that truly I have been grieved in
my heart ever since."

" Ah, Mr Murdoch," said the farmer, " there is evermore
hypocrisy in the world than in the church, and that, too,
among the class of fine gentlemen and fine ladies, who deny

it most. But the instance"

"You know the family, my worthy friend," continued
Mr Murdoch — " it is a very pretty one, as we say vernacu-
larly, being numerous, and the sons highly genteel young
men ; the daughters not less so. A neighbour of the same
very polite character, coming on a visit when I was among
them, asked the father, in the course of a conversation to
which I was privy, how he meant to dispose of his sons ;
when the father replied that he had not yet determined.
The visiter said, that, were he in his place, seeing they
were all well educated young men, he would send them
abroad ; to which the father objected the indubitable fact,
that many young men lost their health in foreign countries,
and very many their lives. ' True/ did the visiter rejoin ;
' but, as you have a number of sons, it will be strange if some
one of them does not live and make a fortune.' Now, Mr

Burns, what will you, who know the feelings of paternity,
and the incalculable, and assuredly, I may say, invaluable
value of human souls, think when I add^ that the father
commended the hint as shewing the wisdom of a shrewd
man of the world !"

" Even the chief priests," said the old man, <c pronounced
it unlawful to cast into the treasury the thirty pieces of
silver, seeing it was the price of blood; but the gen-
tility of the present day is less scrupulous. There is a
laxity of principle among us, Mr Murdoch, that, if God
restore us not, must end in the ruin of our country. I say
laxity of principle ; for there have ever been evil manners
among us, and waifs in no inconsiderable number, broken
loose from the decencies of society — more, perhaps, in my early
days than there are now. But our principles, at least, were
j sound ; and not only was there thus a restorative and con
servative spirit among us, but, what was of not less import-
ance, there was a broad gulf, like that in the parable, between
the two grand classes, the good and the evil — a gulf which
when it secured the better class from contamination, inter-
posed no barrier to the reformation and return of even the
most vile and profligate, if repentant. But this gulf has
disappeared, and we are standing unconcernedly over it, on
a hollow and dangerous marsh of neutral ground, which, in
the end, if God open not our eyes, must assuredly give way
under our feet."

" To what, father," inquired my friend, who sat listening
with the deepest and most respectful attention, " do you
attribute the change ?"

" Undoubtedly," replied the old man, " there have been
many causes at work ; and, though not impossible, it would
certainly be no easy task to trace them all to their several
effects, and give to each its due place and importance. But
there is a deadly evil among us, though you will hear of it
from neither press nor pulpit, which I am disposed to rank
first in the number — the afl'ectation of gentility. It has a
threefold influence among us : it confounds the grand, eternal
distinctions of right and wrong, by erecting into a standard
of conduct and opinion, that heterogeneous and artificial
whole which constitutes the manners and morals of the upper
classes ; it severs those ties of affection and good- will which
should bind the middle to the lower orders, by disposing the
' one to regard whatever is below them with a too contemptu-
' ous indifference, and by provoking a bitter and indignant,
though natural jealousy in the other for being so regarded ;
and, finally, by leadin-g those who most entertain it, into habits
of expense, torturing their means, if I may so speak, on the
rack of false opinion — disposing them to think, in their
blindness, that to be genteel is a first consideration, and to
be honest merely a secondary one — it has the effect of so
hardening their hearts, that, like those Carthaginians of whom
we have been lately reading in the volume Mr Murdoch lent
us, they offer up their very children, souls and bodies, to the
unreal, phantom-like necessities of their circumstances."

" Have I not heard you remark, father," said Gilbert,
" that the change you describe has been very marked among
the ministers of our Church ?"

*' Too marked and too striking," replied the old man ; " and
in affecting the respectability and usefulness of so important
a class, it has educed a cause of deterioration, distinct from
itself, and hardly less formidable. There is an old proverb
of our country — ' Better the head of the commonality than
the tail of the gentry.' I have heard you quote it, Robert,
oftener than once, and admire its homely wisdom. Now, it
bears directly on what I have to remark — the ministers of
our Church have moved but one step during the last sixty
years ; but that step has been an all-important one — it has
been from the best place in relation to the people to the
worst in relation to the arstocracy."

" Undoubtedly, worthy Mr Burns," said Mr Murdoch,
'f there is great truth, according to mine own experience, in

152

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

that which you affirm. I may state, I trust, without over
boasting or conceit, my respected friend, that my learning is
not inferior to that of our neighbour the clergyman — it is
not inferior in Latin, nor in Greek, nor yet in French litera-
ture, Mr Burns, and probable it is he would not much court
a competition ; and yet, when I last waited at the Manse
regarding a necessary and essential certificate, Mr Burns, he
did not so much as ask me to sit down."

" Ah 1" said Gilbert, who seemed the wit of the family,
" he is a highly respectable man, Mr Murdoch — he has a
fine house, fine furniture, fine carpets — all that constitutes
respectability, you know ; and his family is on visiting terms
with that of the Laird. But his credit is not so respectable,
I hear."

'•' Gilbert," said the old man, with much seriousness, <f it
is ill with a people when they can speak lightly of their
clergymen. There is still much of sterling worth and seri-
ous piety in the Church of Scotland ; and if the influence
:>f its ministers be unfortunately less than it was once, we
must not cast the blame too exclusively on themselves.
Other causes have been in operation. The Church, eighty
years ago, was the sole guide of opinion, and the only source
of thought among us. There was, indeed, but one way in
which a man could learn to think. His mind became the
subject of some serious impression : — he applied to his Bible,
and, in the contemplation of the most important of all con-
cerns, his newly awakened faculties received their first exer-
cise. All of intelligence, all of moral good in him, all that
rendered him worthy of the name of man, he owed to the
ennobling influence of his Church ; and is it wonder that
that influence should be all-powerful from this circumstance
alone ? But a thorough change has taken place ; — new
sources of intelligence have been opened up ; we have our
newspapers, and our magazines, and our volumes of miscel-
laneous reading ; and it is now possible enough for the
most cultivated mind in a parish to be the least moral and
the least religious ; and hence necessarily a diminished
influence in the Church, independent of the character of its
ministers."

I have dwelt too long, perhaps, on the conversation of
the elder Burns ; but I feel much pleasure in thus develop-
ing, as it were, my recollections of one whom his powerful
minded son has described — and this after an acquaintance
with our Henry M'Kenzies, Adam Smiths, and Dugald
Stewarts — as the man most thoroughly acquainted with the
world he ever knew. Never, at least, have I met with
any one who exerted a more wholesome influence, through
the force of moral character, on those around him. We sat
down to a plain and homely supper. The slave question
had, about this time, begun to draw the attention of a few
of the more excellent and intelligent among the people, and
the elder Burns seemed deeply interested in it.

"This is but homely fare, Mr Lindsay," he said, pointing
to the simple viands before us, " and the apologists of slavery
among us would tell you how inferior we are to the poor
negroes, who fare so much better. But surely ' Man liveth
not by bread alone !' Our fathers who died for Christ on
the hillside and the scaffold were noble men, and never,
never shall slavery produce such, and yet they toiled as
h-ard, and fared as meanly as we their children."

I could feel, in the cottage of such a peasant, and seated
beside such men as his two sons, the full force of the remark.
And yet I have heard the miserable sophism of unprinci-
pled power against which it was directed — a sophism so
insulting to the dignity of honest poverty — a thousand
times repeated.

Supper over, the family circle widened round the hearth;
and the old man, taking down a large clasped Bible, seated
himself beside the iron lamp which now lighted the apart-
ment. There was deep silence among us as he turned over
the leaves. Never shall I forget his appearance. He was

tall and thin, and, though his frame was still vigorous, consi-
derably bent. His features were high and massy — the com-
plexion still retained much of the freshness of youth, and
;he eye all its intelligence ; but the locks were waxing thin
and grey round his high, thoughtful forehead, and the upper
part of the head, which was elevated to an unusual height,
was bald. There was an expression of the deepest serious*
ness on the countenance, which the strong umbery shadows
of the apartment served to heighten ; and when, laying his
band on the page, he half turned his face to the circle, and
said, " Let us worship God," I was impressed by a feeling
of awe and reverence to which I had, alas ! been a strangei
for years. I was affected, too, almost to tears, as I joined iu
the psalm ; for a thousand half-forgotten associations came
rushing upon me ; and my heart seemed to swell and expand
as, kneeling beside him when he prayed, I listened to his
solemn and fervent petition, that God might make manifest
his great power and goodness in the salvation of man. Nor
was the poor solitary wanderer of the deep forgotten.

On rising from our devotions, the old man grasped me by
the hand. " I am happy," he said, " that we should have met,
Mr Lindsay. I feel an interest in you, and must take the
friend and the old man's privilege of giving you an advice.
The sailor, of all men, stands most in need of religion. His
life is one of continued vicissitude — of unexpected success,
or unlooked-for misfortune ; he is ever passing from danger
to safety, and from safety to danger ; his dependence is on
the every- varying winds, his abode on the unstable waters.
And the mind takes a peculiar tone from what is peculiar
in the circumstances. With nothing stable in the real world
around it on which it may rest, it forms a resting-place for
itself in some wild code of belief. It peoples the elements
with strange occult powers of good and evil, and does them
homage — addressing its prayers to the genius of the winds,
and the spirits of the waters. And thus it begets a religion
for itself; — for what else is the professional superstition of
the sailor? Substitute, my friend, for this — (shall I call it
unavoidable superstition?) — this natural religion of the sea —
the religion of the Bible. Since you must be a believer in
the supernatural, let your belief be true; let your trust be
on Him who faileth not — your anchor within the vail;
and all shall be well, be your destiny for this world what it
may."

We parted for the night, and I saw him no more.

Next morning, Robert accompanied me for several miles
on my way. I saw, for the last half hour, that he had some-
thing to communicate, and yet knew not how to set about
it ; and so I made a full stop :—

" You have something to tell me, Mr Burns," I said :
u need I assure you I am one you are in no danger from
trusting." He blushed deeply, and I saw him, for the first
time, hesitate and falter in his address.

"Forgive me," he at length said — "believe me, Mr Lindsay,
I would be the last in the world to hurt the feelings of a
friend — a — a — but you have been left among us penni-
less, and I have a very little money which I have no use for ;
— none in the least ; — will you not favour me by accepting
it as a loan ?"

I felt the full and generous delicacy of the proposal, and,
with moistened eyes and a swelling heart, availed myseli
of his kindness. The sum he tendered did not much ex-
ceed a guinea ; but the yearly earnings of the peasant Burns
fell, at this period, of his life rather below eight pounds.
( To be continued.)

WILSON'S

, arratrfttonarg, an*

AND OF SCOTLAND.

RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS.

(Concluded.)

CHAPTER V.

Corbies an' Clergy are a shot right kittle. — Brtgt of Ayr.

THE years passed, and I was again a dweller on the sea ;
out the ill fortune which had hitherto tracked me like a
bloodhound, seemed at length as if tired in the pursuit, and
I was now the master of a West India trader, and had
begun to lay the foundation of that competency which has
secured to my declining years the quiet and comfort which,
for the latter part of my life, it has been my happiness to
enjoy. My vessel had arrived at Liverpool in the latter
part of the year 1784, and I had taken coach for Irvine, to
visit my mother, whom I had not seen for several years.
There was a change of passengers at every stage ; but I saw
little in any of them to interest me, till within about a score
of miles of my destination, when I met with an old respect-
able townsman, a friend of my father's. There was but
another passenger in the coach, a north country gentleman
from the "West Indies. I had many questions to ask my
townsman, and many to answer — and the time passed
lightly away.

"Can you tell me ought of the Burnses of Lechlea ?" I in-
quired, after learning that my mother and my other relatives
Vvere well. " I met with the young man Robert about five
years ago, and have often since asked myself what special
end Providence could have in view in making such a man."

" I was acquainted with old William Burns," said my
companion, " when he was gardener at Denholm, an' got
intimate wi' his son Robert, when he lived wi' us at
Irvine, a twalmonth syne. The faither died shortly ago,
sairly straitened in his means, I'm fear'd, an' no very square
wi' the laird — an' ill wad he hae liked that, for an honester
man never breathed. Robert, puir chield, is no very easy
either."

" In his circumstances ?" I said.

<l Ay, an' waur : — he gat entangled wi' the Kirk, on an

nlucky sculduddery business, an' has been writing bitter,

wicked ballads on a' the guid ministers in the country ever

syne. I'm vexed it's on them he suld hae fallen ; an' yet

they hae been to blame too."

" Robert Burns so entangled, so occupied 1" I exclaimed ;

you grieve and astonish me."

" We are puir creatures, Matthew," said the old man ;
" strength an' weakness are often next door neighbours in
the best o' us ; nay, what is our vera strength taen on the
ae side, may be our vera weakness taen on the ither.
Never was there a stancher, firmer fallow than Robert
Burns ; an' now that he has taen a wrang step, puir chield,
that vera stanchness seems just a weak want o' ability to
yield. He has planted his foot where it lighted by
mishanter, an' a' the guid an' ill in Scotland wadna budge
him frae the spot."

" Dear me ' that so powerful a mind should be so frivol-
ously engaged ! Making ballads, you say ? — with what suc-
cess ?"

124. VOL. III.

" Ah, Matthew, lad when the strong man puts out his
strength," said my companion, " there's naething frivolous
in the matter, be his object what it may. Robert's ballads
are far, far aboon the best things ever seen in Scotland
afore ; we auld folk dinna ken whether maist to blame or
praise them, but they keep the young people laughing frao
the ae nuik o' the shire till the ither."

" But how," I inquired, " have the better clergy ren-
dered themselves obnoxious to Burns ? The laws he has
violated, if I rightly understand you, are indeed severe,
and somewhat questionable in their tendencies ; and even
good men often press them too far."

" And in the case of Robert," said the old man, " our
clergy have been strict to the very letter. They're guid
men an' faithfu ministers ; but ane o' them, at least, an' he
a leader, has a harsh, ill temper, an' mistakes sometimes the
corruption o' the auld man in him for the proper zeal o' the
new ane. Nor is there ony o' the ithers wha kent what
they had to deal wi' when Robert cam afore them. They
saw but a proud, thrawart ploughman, that stood uncow'r-
ing under the glunsh o' a hail session ; an' so they opened
on him the artillery o' the kirk, to bear down his pride.
Wha could hae tauld them that they were but frushing their
straw an' rotten wood against the iron scales o' Leviathan ?
An' now that they hae dune their maist, the record o'
Robert's mishanter is lying in whity-brown ink yonder in
a page o' the session-buik, while the ballads hae sunk deep
deep intil the very mind o' the country, and may live there
for hunders and hunders o' years."

" You seem to contrast, in this business," I said, " our
better with what you must deem our inferior clergy. You
mean, do you not, the Higher and Lower parties in our
Church ? How are they getting on now ?"

" Never worse," replied the old man; "an,' oh, it's surely ill
» when the ministers o' peace become the very leaders o' con-
I tention ! But let the blame rest in the right place. Peace
is surely a blessing frae Heaven — no a guid wark demanded
frae man ; an' when it grows our duty to be in war, it's an
ill thing to be in peace. Our Evangelicals are stan'in, puir
folk, whar their faithers stood ; an' if they maun either fight
or be beaten frae their post, why, it's just their duty to fight.
But the Moderates are rinnin mad a'thegither amang us :
signing our auld Confession, just that they may get intil
the Kirk to preach against it ; paring the New Testament
doun to the vera standard o' heathen Plawto ; and sinking
ae doctrine after anither, till they leave ahint naething but
Deism that might scunner an infidel. Deed, Matthew, il
there comena a change among them, an' that sune, they'll
swamp the puir Kirk a' thegither. The cauld morality that
never made ony ane mair moral, taks nae baud o' the people;
an' patronage, as meikle's they roose it, winna keep up
either kirk or manse o' itsel. Sorry I am, sin' Robert has
entered on the quarrel at a', it suld hae been on the wrang
side."

" One of my chief objections," I said, " to the religion
of the Moderate party is, that it is of no use."

" A gey serious ane," rejoined the old man; "but maybe

there's a waur still. I'm unco vexed for Robert, baith on his

I worthy faither's account and his ain. He's a fearsome fellow

154

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

when ance angered, but an honest, warm-hearted chield for
a' that ; an' there's mair sense in yon big head o' his than
in ony ither twa in the country."

" Can you tell me aught," said the north country gentle-
man, addressing my companion, " of Mr R , the chapel

minister in K ? I was once one of his pupils in the

far north ; but I have heard nothing of him since he left
Cromarty."

" Why," rejoined the old man, " he's just the man that,
mair nor a' the rest, has borne the brunt o' Robert's fearsome
waggery. Did ye ken him in Cromarty, say ye ?"

" He was parish schoolmaster there," said the gentleman,
" for twelve years ; and for six of these I attended his
school. I cannot help respecting him; but no one ever
loved him. Never surely was there a man at once so une-
quivocally honest and so thoroughly unamiable."

" You must have found him a rigid disciplinarian," I said.

<f He was the most so," he replied, " from the days of
Dionysius, at least, that ever taught a school. I remember
there was a poor fisher boy among us named Skinner, who,
as is customary in Scottish schools, as you must know,
blew the horn for gathering the scholars, and kept the
catalogue and the key ; and who, in return, was educated
by the master, and received some little gratuity from the
scholars besides. On one occasion, the key dropped out of
his pocket ; and, when school-time came, the irascible
dominie had to burst open the door with his foot. He
raged at the boy with a fury so insane, and beat him so
unmercifully, that the other boys, gathering heart in the ex-
tremity of the case, had to rise en masse and tear him out
of his hands. But the curious part of the story is yet to
come : Skinner has been a fisherman for the last twelve
years ; but never has he been seen disengaged, for a moment,
from that time to this, without mechanically thrusting his
hand into the key pocket."

Our companion furnished us with two or three other anec-
dotes of Mr R . He told us of a lady who was so over-
come by sudden terror on unexpectedly seeing him, many
years after she had quitted his school, in one of the pulpits
of the south, that she fainted away ; and of another of his
scholars, named M'Glashan, a robust, daring fellow of six
feet, who, when returning to Cromarty from some of the
colonies, solaced himself by the way with thoughts of the
hearty drubbing with which he was to clear off all his old
scores with the dominie.

"Ere his return, however," continued the gentleman,

" Mr R had quitted the parish ; and, had it chanced

otherwise, it is questionable whether M'Glashan, with all
his strength and courage, would have gained anything in an
encounter with one of the boldest and most powerful men
in the country."

Such were some of the chance glimpses which I gained,
at this time, of by far the most powerful of the opponents
of Burns. He was a good, conscientious man ; but unfor-
tunate in a harsh, violent temper, and in sometimes mistak-
ing, as my old townsman remarked, the dictates of that
temper for those of duty.

CHAPTER VI.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r

To keep at times frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd—
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs in countless thousands rant,

And keuna how to wafr't. — Epistle to Davie.

I visited my friend, a few days after my arrival in Irvine
at the farm-house of Mossgiel, to which, on the death of hi
father, he had removed, with his brother Gilbert and hi
mother. I could not avoid observing that his manners were
considerably changed : my welcome seemed less kind anc
hearty than I could have anticipated from the warm-heartec

)easant of five years ago, and there was a stern and almost,
supercilious elevation in his bearing, which at first pained
and offended me. I had met with him as he was returning
'rom the fields after the labours of the day : the dusk ol
twilight had fallen ; and, though I had calculated on passing
the evening with him at the farm-house of Mossgiel, so dis-
pleased was I, that, after our first greeting, I had more
han half changed my mind. The recollection of his formei
dndness to me, however, suspended the feeling, and I
resolved on throwing myself on his hospitality for the night,
lowever cold the welcome.

" I have come all the way from Irvine to see you, Mr
Burns," I said. ' For the last five years, I have thought
more of my mother and you than of any other two persons
in the country. May I not calculate, as of old, on my
upper and a bed ?"

There was an instantaneous change in his expression.

" Pardon me, my friend," he said, grasping my hand
' I have, unwittingly, been doing you wrong ; one may
surely be the master of an Indiaman, and in possession of
a heart too honest to be spoiled by prosperity !"

The remark served to explain the haughty coldness of
liis manner which had so displeased me, and which was but
the unwillingly assumed armour of a defensive pride.

" There, brother," he said, throwing down some plough
irons which he carried, " send nee Davoc with these to the
smithy, and bid him tell Rankin I won't be there to-night.
The moon is rising, Mr Lindsay — shall we not have a stroll
together through the coppice ?"

" That of all things," I replied ; and, parting from Gil-
bert, we struck into the wood.

The evening, considering the lateness of the season, for
winter had set in, was mild and pleasant. The moon at
full was rising over the Cumnock Hills, and casting its faint
light on the trees that rose around us, in their winding-
sheets of brown and yellow, like so many spectres, or that,
in the more exposed gla es and openings of the wood,
stretched their long naked arms to the sky. A light breeze
went rustling through the withered grass ; and I could see
the faint twinkling of the falling leaves, as they came shower-
ing down on every side of us.

" We meet in the midst of death and desolation," said
my companion — " we parted when all around us was fresh
and beautiful. My father was with me then, and — and Mary
Campbell — and now"

" Mary ! your Mary !" I exclaimed — " the young — the
beautiful — alas ! is she also gone ?"

" She has left me," he said — " left me. Mary is in her
grave !"

I felt my heart swell, as the image of that loveliest of
creatures came rising to my view in all her beauty, as I had
seen her by the river side ; and I knew not what to reply.

" Yes," continued my friend, " she is in her grave ; — we
parted for a few days, to re-unite, as we hoped, for ever ;
and, ere those few days had passed, she was in her grave.
But I was unworthy of her — unworthy even then ; and
now • But she is in her grave !'

I grasped his hand. " It is difficult, I said, " to bid the
heart submit to these dispensations, and, oh, how utterly
impossible to bring it to listen ! But life — your life, my
friend — must not be passed in useless sorrow. I am con-
vinced, and often have I thought of it since our last meeting,
that yours is no vulgar destiny — though I know not to
what it tends."

" Downwards!" he exclaimed — " it tends downwards; — I
see, I feel it ; — the anchor of my affection is gone, and I
drift shoreward on the rocks."

" 'Twere ruin," I exclaimed, " to think so !"

" Not half an hour ere my father died," he continued,
" he expressed a wish to rise and sit once more in his
chair ; and we indulged him But, alas ! the same feeling

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

155

of nnwtsftiess which had prompted the wish, remained with
him still, and he sought to return again to his bed. < It is
not by quitting the bed or the chair/ he said, ' that I need
seek for ease : it is by quitting the body.' I am oppressed,
Mr Lindsay, by a somewhat similar feeling of uneasiness,
and, at times, would fain cast the blame on the circumstances
in which I am placed. But I may be as far mistaken as
my poor father. I would fain live at peace with all man-
kind— nay, more, I would fain love and do good to them
all ; but the villain and the oppressor come to set their feet
on my very neck, and crush me into the mire — and
must I not resist ? And when, in some luckless hour, I
yield to my passions — to those fearful passions that must
one day overwhelm me — when I yield, and my whole mind
is darkened by remorse, and I groan under the discipline
of conscience, then comes the odious, abominable hypocrite
• — the devourer of widows' houses and the substance of the
orphan — and demands that my repentance be as public as
his own hollow, detestable prayers. And can I do other
than resist and expose him ? My heart tells mo it was
formed to bestow — why else does every misery that I cannot
relieve, render me wretched? It tells me, too, it was
formed not to receive — why else does the proffered assistance
of even a friend fill my whole soul with indignation ? But
ill do my circumstances agree with my feelings. I feel as
if I were totally misplaced, in some frolic of Nature, and
wander onwards in gloom and unhappiness, for my proper
sphere. But, alas ! these efforts of uneasy misery are but the
blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his
cave."

I again began to experience, as on a former occasion, the
o'ermastering power of a mind larger beyond comparison
than my own ; but I felt it my duty to resist the influence.
" Yes, you are misplaced, my friend," I said — 'f perhaps
more decidedly so than any other man I ever knew ; but
is not this characteristic, in some measure, of the whole
species ? We are all misplaced ; and it seems a part of the
scheme of Deity, that we should work ourselves up to our
proper sphere. In what other respect does man so differ
from the inferior animals as in these aspirations which lead
him through all the progressions of improvement, from the
lowest to the highest level of his nature ?"

" That may be philosophy, my friend," he replied, " but
a heart ill at ease finds little of comfort in it. You knew my
father : need I say he was one of the excellent of the earth —
a man who held directly from God Almighty the patent of
his honours ? I saw that father sink broken-hearted into the
grave, the victim of legalized oppression — yes, saw him
overborne in the long contest which his high spirit and his
indomitable love of the right had incited him to maintain —
overborne by a mean, despicable scoundrel — one of the
creeping things of the earth. Heaven knows I did my ut-
most to assist in the struggle. In my fifteenth year, Mr
Lindsay, when a thin, loose -jointed boy, I did the work of
a man, and strained my unknit and overtoiled sinews as if
life and death depended on the issue, till oft, in the middle
of the night, I have had to fling myself from my bed to
avoid instant suffocation — an effect of exertion so prolonged
and so premature. Nor has the man exerted himself less
heartily than the boy — in the roughest, severest labours of
the field, I have never yet met a competitor. But my la-
bours have been all in vain — I have seen the evil bewailed
by Solomon — the righteous man falling down before the
wicked." I could answer only with a sigh. Cf You are in the
right," he continued, after a pause, and in a more subdued
tone : f< man is certainly misplaced — the present scene of
things is below the dignity of both his moral and intellec-
tual nature. ^Look round you" — (we had reached the sum-
mit of a grassy eminence which rose over the wood, and
commanded a pretty extensive view of the surrounding
country) — " see yonder scattered cottages, that, in the faint

light, rise dim and black amid the stubble fields — my heart
warms as I look on them, for I know how much of honest
worth, and sound, generous feeling shelters under these
rooftrees. But why so much of moral excellence united to
a mere machinery for ministering to the ease and luxury of
a few of perhaps the least worthy of our species — creatures
so spoiled by prosperity that the claim of a common nature
has no force to move them, and who seem as miserably
misplaced as the myriads whom they oppress ?"

" If I'm designed yon lordling's slave —

By nature's law designed —
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind ?
If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty and scorn ?
Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn ?'•

" I would hardly know what to say in return, my friend,"
I rejoined, " did not you, yourself, furnish me with the reply.
You are groping on in darkness, and it may be unhappiness,
for your proper sphere ; but it is in obedience to a great
though occult law of our nature — a law general, as it affects
the species, in its course of onward progression — particular,
and infinitely more irresistible, as it operates on every truly
superior intellect. There are men born to wield the des-
tinies of nations — nay, more, to stamp the impression of
their thoughts and feelings on the mind of the whole civilized
world. And by what means do we often find them roused
to accomplish their appointed work ? At times hounded on
by sorrow and suffering, and thus in the design of Provi-
dence, that there may be less of sorrow and suffering in the
world ever after — at times roused by cruel and maddening
oppression, that the oppressor may perish in his guilt, and
a whole country enjoy the blessings of freedom. If Wallace
had not suffered from tyranny, Scotland would not have
been free."

<f But how apply the remark ?" said my companion.

" Robert Burns," I replied, again grasping his hand, "yours,
I am convinced, is no vulgar destiny. Your griefs, your
sufferings, your errors even, the oppressions you have seen
and felt, the thoughts which have arisen in your mind,
the feelings and sentiments of which it has been the sub-
ject— are, I am convinced, of infinitely more importance in
their relation to your country than to yourself. You are,
wisely and benevolently, placed far below your level, that
thousands and ten thousands of your countrymen may be
the better enabled to attain to theirs. Assert the dignity
of manhood and of genius, and there will be less of wrong
and oppression in the world ever after."

I spent the remainder of the evening in the farm-house
of Mossgiel, and took the coach next morning for Liverpool.

CHAPTER VII.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak —
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,

Or the smile light up the cheek ;
And his that music to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime. — American Poet.

The love of literature, when once thoroughly awakened
in a reflective mind, can never after cease to influence it.
It first assimilates our intellectual part to those fine intel-
lects which live in the world of books, and then renders
our connection with them indispensable, by laying hold of
that social principle of our nature which ever leads us to
the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of enjoyment.
My early habits, by heightening my tone of thought and
feeling, had tended considerably to narrow my circle of com-
panionship. My profession, too, had led me to be much
alone ; and now that I had been several years the master ot

156

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of reading, and felt as
deep an interest in whatever took place in the literary world,
as when a student at St Andrew's. There was much in
the literature of the period to gratify my pride as a Scotch-
man. The despotism, both political and religious, which
had overlaid the energies of our country for more than a
century, had long been removed, and the national mind
had swelled and expanded under a better system of things,
till its influence had become co-extensive with civilized
man. Hume had produced his inimitable history, and
Adam Smith his wonderful work, which was to revolu-
tionize and new-model the economy of all the governments
of the earth. And there, in my little library, were the
histories of Henry and Robertson, the philosophy of Kaimes
and Reid, the novels of Smollett and M'Kenzie, and the
poetry of Beattie and Home. But, if there was no lack of
Scottish intellect in the literature of the time, there was a
decided lack of Scottish manners ; and I knew too much
of my humble countrymen not to regret it. True, I had
before me the writings of Ramsay and my unfortunate
friend Ferguson ; but there was a radical meanness in the
first that lowered the tone of his colouring far beneath the
freshness of truth, and the second, whom I had seen perish —
too soon, alas ! for literature and his country — had given us
but a few specimens of his power, when his hand was
arrested for ever.

My vessel, after a profitable, though somewhat tedious
voyage, had again arrived in Liverpool. It was late in
December 1786, and I was passing the long evening in my
cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets and maga-
zines which had been sent me from the shore. The
Lounger was, at this time, in course of publication. I had
ever been an admirer of the quiet elegance and exquisite
tenderness of M'Kenzie ; and, though I might not be quite
disposed to think, with Johnson, that " the chief glory
of every people arises from its authors," I certainly felt all
the prouder of my country, from the circumstance that so
accomplished a writer was one of my countrymen. I had
read this evening some of the more recent numbers, half
disposed to regret, however, amid all the pleasure they
afforded me, that the Addison of Scotland had not done
for the manners of his country what his illustrious prototype
had done for those of England, when my eye fell on the
ninety-seventh number. I read the introductory sentences,
and admired their truth and elegance. I had felt, in the
contemplation of supereminent genius, the pleasure which
the writer describes, and my thoughts reverted to my two
friends — the dead and the living. " In the view of highly
superior talents, as in that of great and stupendous objects,"
says the Essayist, "there is a sublimity which fills the
soul with wonder and delight — which expands it, as it were,
beyond its usual bounds, and which, investing our nature
with extraordinary powers and extraordinary honours,
interests our curiosity and flatters our pride."

I read on with increasing interest. It was evident, from
the tone of the introduction, that some new luminary had
arisen in the literary horizon, and I felt somewhat like a
schoolboy when, at his first play, he waits for the drawing
up of the curtain. And the curtain at length rose. " The
person," continues the essayist, " to whom I allude" — and
he alludes to him as a genius of no ordinary class — c' is
Robert Burns, an Ayrshire ploughman." The effect on my
nerves seemed electrical — I clapped my hands, and sprung
from my seat : " Was I not certain of it ! Did I not fore-
see it!" I exclaimed. " My noble-minded friend, Robert
Burns !" I ran hastily over the warm-hearted and generous
critique, so unlike the cold, timid, equivocal notices with
which the professional critic has greeted, on their first ap-
pearance, so many works destined to immortality. It was
M'Kenzie, the discriminating, the classical, the elegant, who
assured me that the productions of this " heaven-taught

ploughman were fraught with the high-toned feeling and
the power and energy of expression, characteristic of the
mind and voice of a poet" — with the solemn, the tender,
the sublime ; — that they contained images of pastoral beauty
which no other writer had ever surpassed, and strains of
wild humour which only the higher masters of the lyre had
ever equalled ; and that the genius displayed in them seemed
not less admirable in tracing the manners than in painting
the passions, or in drawing the scenery of nature. I flung
down the essay, ascended to the deck in three huge strides,
leaped ashore, and reached my bookseller's as he w-^s shut-
ting up for the night.

" Can you furnish me with a copy of Burns' Poems," I
said, " either for love or money ?"

" I have but one copy left," replied the man, '' and here
it is."

I flung down a guinea. " The change," I said, " I shal]
get when I am less in a hurry."

'Twas late that evening ere I remembered that 'tis cus-
tomary to spend at least part of the night in bed. I read
on and on with a still increasing astonishment and delight,
laughing and crying by turns. I was quite in a new world ;
all was fresh and unsoiled — the thoughts, the descriptions,
the images — as if the volume I read was the first that had
ever been written ; and yet all was easy and natural, and
appealed, with a truth and force irresistible, to the recol-
lections I cherished most fondly. Nature and Scotland met
me at every turn. I had admired the polished compositions
of Pope, and Gray, and Collins, though I could not some-
times help feeling that, with all the exquisite art they dis-
played, there was a little additional art wanting still. In
most cases the scaffolding seemed incorporated with the
structure which it had served to rear ; and, though certainly
no scaffolding could be raised on surer principles, I could
have wished that the ingenuity which had been tasked to
erect it, had been exerted a little further in taking it down.
But the work before me was evidently the production of a
greater artist j not a fragment of the scaffolding remained —
not so much as a mark to shew how it had been constructed.
The whole seemed to have risen like an exhalation, and, in
this respect, reminded me of the structures of Shakspeare
alone. I read the inimitable " Twa Dogs." Here, I said, is
the full and perfect realization of what Swift and Dryden
were hardy enough to attempt, but lacked genius to accom-
plish. Here are dogs — bona fide dogs — endowed indeed
with more than human sense and observation, but true to
character, as the most honest and attached of quadrupeds,
in every line. And then those exquisite touches which the
poor man, inured to a life of toil and poverty, can alone
rightly understand ! and those deeply-based remarks on cha-
racter, which only the philosopher can justly appreciate ! This
is the true Catholic poetry, which addresses itself not to any
little circle, walled in from the rest of the species by some
peculiarity of thought, prejudice, or condition, but to the
whole human family. I read on : — " The Holy Fair," " Hal
low E'en," " The Vision," the "Address to theDeil," engaged
me by turns ; and then the strange, uproarious, unequalled
" Death and Doctor Hornbook." This, I said, is something
new in the literature of the world. Shakspeare possessed
above all men the power of instant and yet natural transition,
from the lightly gay to the deeply pathetic — from the wild to
the humorous ; but the opposite states of feeling which he
induces, however close the neighbourhood, are ever distinct
and separate ; the oil and the water, though contained in
the same vessel, remain apart Here, however, for the
first time, they mix and incorporate, and yet each retains its
whole nature and full effect. I need hardly remind the reader
that the feat has been repeated, and with even more com-
pleteness, in the wonderful "Tarn o' Shanter." I read on.
" The Cotter's Saturday Night" filled my whole soul — my
heart throbbed and my eyes moistened ; and never before

TALES OF THE BORDERS

157

did I feel half so proud of my country, or know half so well
on what score it was I did best in feeling proud. I had
perused the entire volume, from beginning to end, ere I re-
membered I had not taken supper, and that it was more
than time to go to bed.

But it is no part of my plan to furnish a critique on the
poems of my friend. I merely strive to recall the thoughts
and feelings which my first perusal of them awakened, and
thus only as a piece of mental history. Several months
elapsed from this evening ere I could hold them out from
me sufficiently at arms' length, as it were, to judge of their
more striking characteristics. At times the amazing amount
of thought, feeling, and imagery which they contained —
their wonderful continuity of idea, without gap or interstice-
seemed to me most to distinguish them. At times they re-
minded me, compared with the writings of smoother poets,
of a collection of medals which, unlike the thin polished coin
of the kingdom, retained all the significant and pictorial
roughnesses of the original dye. But when, after the lapse
of weeks, months, years, I found them rising up in my
heart on every occasion, as naturally as if they had been
the original language of all my feelings and emotions —
when I felt that, instead of remaining outside my mind, as it
were, like the writings of other poets, they had so amalga-
mated themselves with my passions, my sentiments, my
ideas, that they seemed to have become portions of my
very self — I was led to a final conclusion regarding them.
Their grand distinguishing characteristic is their unswerv-
ing and perfect truth. The poetry of Shakspeare is the
mirror of life — that of Burns the expressive and richly
modulated voice of human nature.

CHAPTER VIII.

Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from neces-
sity ; but — 1 will say it ! — the sterling of his honest worth, poverty could
not debaoQ ; and his independent British spirit oppression might bend, but
could not sisbdue. — Letter to Mr Graham.

I have been listening for the last half hour to the wild
music of an Eolian harp. How exquisitely the tones rise
and fall ! — now sad, now solemn — now near, now distant.
The nerves thrill, the heart softens, the imagination awakes
as we listen. What if that delightful instrument be ani-
mated by a living soul, and these finely-modulated tones
be but the expression of its feelings ! What if these dying,
melancholy cadences, which so melt and sink into the
heart be — what we may so naturally interpret them — the
melodious sinkings of a deep-seated and hopeless unhappi-
ness ! Nay, the fancy is too wild for even a dream. But
are there none of those fine analogies, which run through
the whole of nature and the whole of art, to sublime it in-
to truth ? Yes, there have been such living harps among
us ; beings, the tones of whose sentiments, the melody ot
whose emotions, the cadences of whose sorrows, remain to
thrill, and delight, and humanize our souls. They seem
born for others, not for themselves. — Alas, for the hapless
companion of my early youth ! Alas, for him, the pride of
his country, the friend of my maturer manhood ! — But my
narrative lags in its progress.

My vessel lay in the Clyde for several weeks during the
summer of 1794, and I found time to indulge myself in a
brief tour along the western coasts of the kingdom, from
Glasgow to the Borders. I entered Dumfries in a calm,
lovely evening, and passed along one of the principal streets.
The shadows of the houses on the western side were
stretched half-way across the pavement, while, on the side
opposite, the bright sunshine seemed sleem'ng on the jutting
irregular fronts and high antique gables. There seemed a
world of well-dressed company this evening in town and I
learned, on inquiry, that all the aristocracy of the adjacent
country, for twenty miles round, had come in to attend a
county ball. They went fluttering along the sunny side of

the street, gay as butterflies— group succeeding group.
On the opposite side, in the shade, a solitary individual was
passing slowly along the pavement. I knew him at a
glance. It was the first poet, perhaps the greatest man, of
his age and country. But why so solitary ? It had been
told me that he ranked among hie friends and associates
many of the highest names in the kingdom, and yet to-
night not one of the hundreds who fluttered past appeared
mclmed^ to recognise him. He seemed too— but perhaps
fancy misled me— as if care-worn and dejected ; pained, per-
haps, that not one among so many of the great should have
humility enough to notice a poor exciseman. I stole up to
him unobserved, and tapped him on the shoulder ; there
was a decided fierceness in his manner as he turned abruptly
round; but, as he recognised me, his expressive countenance
lighted up in a moment, and I shall never forget the hearti-
ness with which he grasped my hand.

We quitted the streets together for the neighbouring
fields, and, after the natural interchange of mutual congratu-
lations— " How is it," I inquired, " that you do not seem to
have a single acquaintance among all the gay and great of
the country?"

lc I lie under quarantine," he replied ; " tainted by the
plague of liberalism. There is not one of the hundreds we
passed to-night whom I could not once reckon among my
intimates."

The intelligence stunned and irritated me. " How
infinitely absurd !" I said. " Do they dream of sinking you
into a common man ?"

" Even so," he rejoined. " Do they not all know I have
been a gauger for the last five yeais !"

The fact had both grieved and incensed me long before.
I knew too that Pye enjoyed his salary as poet laureate of
the time, and Dibdin, the song writer, his pension of two
hundred a-year, and I blushed for my country.

" Yes," he continued — the ill-assumed coolness of his
manner giving way before his highly excited feelings — " they
have assigned me my place among the mean and the degraded,
as their best patronage ; and only yesterday, after an official
threat of instant dismission, I was told it was my business
to act, not to think. God help me ! what have I done to
provoke such bitter insult ? I have ever discharged my
miserable duty — discharged it, Mr Lindsay, however repug-
nant to my feelings, as an honest man ; and though there
awaited me no promotion, I was silent. The wives or sisters
of those whom they advanced over me had bastards to some

of the • family, and so their influence was necessarily

greater than mine. But now they crush me into the very
dust. I take an interest in the struggles of the slave for
his freedom ; I express my opinions as if I myself were a
free man ; and they threaten to starve me and my children
if I dare so much as speak or think."

I expressed my indignant sympathy in a few broken
sentences ; and he went on with kindling animation : —

" Yes, they would fain crush me into the very dust !
They cannot forgive me, that, being born a man, I should
walk erect according to my nature. Mean-spirited and
despicable themselves, they can tolerate only the mean-
spirited and the despicable ; and were I not so entirely in
their power, Mr Lindsay, I could regard them with the
proper contempt. But the wretches can starve rne and my
children — and they know it ; nor does it mend the matter
that I know in turn, what pitiful, miserable, little creatures
they are. What care I for the butterflies of to-night ? — they
passed me without the honour of their notice ; and I, in
turn, suffered them to pjvss without the honour of mine ;
and I am more than quits Do I not know that they and I
are going on to the fulfilment of our several destinies ? — they
to sleep, in the obscurity of their native insignificance, with
the pismires and grasshoppers of all the past, and I to be
whatever the millions of my unborn countrymen shall yet

158

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

decide. Pitiful little insects of an hour ! what is their
notice to me ! But I bear a heart, Mr Lindsay, that can
feel the pain of treatment so unworthy ; and I must confess
it moves me. One cannot always live upon the future,
divorced from the sympathies of the present. One cannot
always solace one's self under the grinding despotism that
would fetter one's very thoughts, with the conviction, how-
ever assured, that posterity will do justice both to the
oppressor and the oppressed. I am sick at heart ; and were
it not for the poor little things that depend so entirely on
my exertions, I could as cheerfully lay me down in the
grave as I ever did in bed after the fatigues of a long day's
labour. Heaven help me ! I am miserably unfitted to
struggle with even the natural evils of existence — how much
more so when these are multiplied and exaggerated by the
proud, capricious inhumanity of man !"

"There is a miserable lack of right principle and right
feeling," I said, " among our upper classes in the present
day ; but, alas for poor human nature ! it has ever been
so, and, I am afraid, ever will. And there is quite as much
of it in savage as in civilized life. I have seen the exclu-
sive aristocratic spirit, with its one-sided injustice, as ram-
pant in a wild isle of the Pacific as I ever saw it among
ourselves."

" 'Tis slight comfort," said my friend, th a melancholy
smile, " to be assured, when one's heart bleeds from the
cruelty or injustice of our fellows, that man is naturally
cruel and unjust, and not less so as a savage than when
better taught. I knew you, Mr Lindsay, when you were
younger and less fortunate ; but you have now reached
that middle term of life when man naturally takes up the
Tory and lays down the Whig ; nor has there been aught
in your improving circumstances to retard the change ;
and so you rest in the conclusion that, if the weak among
us suffer from the tyranny of the strong, 'tis because human
nature is so constituted, and the case therefore cannot be
helped?"

" Pardon me, Mr Burns," I said — " I am not quite so
finished a Tory as that amounts to."

" I am not one of those fanciful declaimers," he con-
tinued, " who set out on the assumption that man is free
born. I am too well assured of the contrary. Man is not
free born. The earlier period of his existence, whether as
a puny child or the miserable denizen of an uninformed
and barbarous state, is one of vassalage and subserviency.
He is not born free, he is not born rational, he is not born
virtuous ; he is born to become all these. And wo to the
sophist who, with arguments drawn from the unconfirmed
constitution of his childhood, would strive to render his
imperfect, because immature state of pupilage, a permanent
one ! We are yet far beloAv the level of which our nature
is capable, and possess in consequence but a small portion
>f the liberty which it is the destiny of our species to enjoy.
And 'tis time our masters should be taught so. You will
deem me a wild Jacobin, Mr Lindsay ; but persecution has
the effect of making a man extreme in these matters. Do help
me to curse the scoundrels ! — my business to act, not to think !"

We were silent for several minutes.

" I have not yet thanked you, Mr Burns," I at length
said, "for the most exquisite pleasure I ever enjoyed. You
have been my companion for the last eight years."

His countenance brightened.

" Ah, here I am boring you with my miseries ancl my
ill-nature," he replied ; " but you must come along with
me and see the bairns and Jean ; and some of the best
songs I ever wrote. It will go hard if we hold not care at
the staff's end for at least one evening. You have not yet
seen my stone punch-bowl, nor my Tarn o' Shanter, nor a
hundred other fine things beside . And yet, vile wretch that
I am, I am sometimes so unconscionable as to be .unhappy
them all. But come along."

We spent this evening together with as much of happi-
ness as it has ever been my lot to enjoy. Never was therfc
a fonder father than Burns, a more attached husband, or a
warmer friend. There was an exuberance of love in his
large heart, that encircled in its flow, relatives, friends,
associates, his country, the world ; and, in his kinder moods,
the sympathetic influence which he exerted over the hearts
of others seemed magical. I laughed and cried this evening
by turns ; I was conscious of a wider and warmer expan-
sion of feeling than I had ever experienced before ; my
very imagination seemed invigorated by breathing, as it
were, in the same atmosphere with his. We parted early
next morning — and when I again visited Dumfries, I went
and wept over his grave. Forty years have now passed
since his death, and in that time, many poets have arisen
to achieve a rapid and brilliant celebrity ; but they seem
the meteors of a lower sky ; the flush passes hastily from
the expanse, and we see but one great light looking steadily
upon us from above. It is Burns who is exclusively the
poet of his country. Other writers inscribe their names
on the plaster which covers for the time the outside struc-
ture of society — his is engraved, like that of the Egyptian
architect, on the ever-during granite within. The fame of
the others rises and falls with the uncertain undulations of
the mode on which they have reared it — his remains fixed
and permanent, as the human nature on which it is based
Or, to borrow the figures Johnson employs in illustrating
the unfluctuating celebrity of a scarcely greater poet — " The
sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the
rock always continues in its place. The stream of time,
which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other
poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of Shakspeare."

CHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK.

THOUGH the records of history and every-day experience
teach us that human nature, when pressed beyond certain
limits by the force of stern necessity, loses all trace of the
lineaments of the lord of the creation, and degenerates as
far below the grade of brute existence as it is, when not
subjected to any such power, above it ; yet it is remarkable
how determinedly mankind cling to a sceptical incredulity
in regard to those facts which ^derogate, in a very great
degree, from the dignity of the character of their species.
The story of Christiecleek has been considered by many as
only fit for being, what it has been for five hundred years,
a nursery bugbear ; and yet it is narrated by Winton, one of
the least credulous of historians, was attended by circum-
stances rendering it highly probable at the time, and has
been corroborated by instances of civilized cannibalism, pro-
duced by necessity, in cases of shipwreck, of almost yearly
occurrence.

The united powers of war and famine, which have so
often poured forth their fury on the devoted head of poor
Scotland, at no time exhibited greater malignity than in
the beginning of the reign of David II. For about fifty
years, the country had scarcely ever enjoyed a year of quiet —
with, perhaps, the exception of a short period of the reign
of Bruce. Repeatedly swept from one end to the other by
the invading armies of the Edwards, carrying the sword
and the faggot in every direction, she was, on the very
instant of the departure of the foreign foes, . (in all cases
starved out of a burnt and devastated land,) laid hold of by
the harpies of intestine wars. The strong resilient energies
of the country could have thrown off the effects of one
attack, however severe and however protracted ; but a
series of incursions of the same disease, at intervals allow-
ing of no time for recruiting her powers, produced a politi-
cal marasmus — a confirmed famine — one of the most dread-
ful evils (including in itself all others) that ever was visited
on mankind.

TALES OF THE BORDERS

169

It would be difficult to draw a picture, because imagina-
tion falls short of the powers of a proper portraiture, of
the misery and desolation of Scotland at the time we have
mentioned. The land had got gradually out of cultivation,
and the herds of black cattle and sheep, on which the peo-
ple relied, in default of the productive powers of agricul-
ture, had been either driven into England, or consumed by
the myriads of soldiers of the English invading armies.
Great numbers of the people having nothing wherewith to
allay the pangs of hunger, though they had plenty of money,
quitted their country in despair, and took refuge in Flanders.
Those who had no money to pay their passage, left their
homes, and betook themselves to the woods, where, to
appease their agonies, they lay on the ground and devoured,
like the inhabitants of their styes, the acrons and the nuts
that had fallen from the trees. In the want of these, the
very branches were laid hold of and gnawed ; and many
poor creatures were found lying dead, with the half-masti-
cated boughs in their clenched hands. The only remedial
influence that was experienced, was the growth of dysenteries
and other intestine diseases, which, produced by hunger and
becoming epidemic, kindly swept off thousands who would
otherwise have died of protracted famine.

At a wild spot near the Grampian Hills, a number of
destitute beings had collected, for the purpose of catching
deer, (a few of which still remained,) to keep in the spark
of life. They agreed to associate together, and divide their
prey, which was dressed in a mountain cave, where they
had assembled. Every morning, they sallied forth, women
and all, on the dreadful errand of taking advantage of chance,
in supplying them with any species of wild animals that came
in their way, to satisfy the imperative demands of hunger.
They got a few creatures at first, consisting chiefly .of hares
and foxes, and occasionally wolves, as ferocious and hungry
as their captors; and such was the extremity to which they
were often reduced, that they sat down on the spot where the
animals were caught, divided the smoking limbs among their
number, and devoured them without any culinary preparation.

This supply very soon ceased — the animals in the neigh-
bourhood having either been consumed or frightened away
to more inaccessible places. The wretched beings, like
others in their situation, had recourse to the woods for
acorns ; but the time of the year had passed, and no nuts
were to be found. Weakness preyed on their limbs ; and
several of their number, unable longer to go in search of
food, which was nowhere to be found, lay on the floor of
the cavern in the agonies of a hunger which their stronger
companions, concerned for their own fate, would not
alleviate. All ties between the members of the associa-
tion began to give way before the despair of absolute
famine. They ceased all personal communication ; silence,
feeding on the morbid forms of misery called up by
diseased imaginations, reigned throughout the society of
skeletons, and hollow eyes, which spoke unutterable things,
glanced through the gloom of the cavern, where a glimmer-
ing fire, on which they had, for a time, prepared the little
meat they had procured, was still kept up, by adding a few
pieces of wood from the neighbouring forest. No notice
was taken of each other's agonies, nor could the groans
which mixed and sounded with a hollow noise through the
dark recess, have been distinguished by the ear of sympathy ;
an occasional scream from a female sufferer who experi-
enced a paroxysm of more than her ordinary agony, was only
capable of fixing the attention for an instant, till individual
pain laid hold again of the tortured feelings.

A person of the name of Andrew Christie, a butcher,
originally from Perth, -had endeavoured, at first, to organize
the society, with a view to save himself and his fellow-
sufferers. He was a strong, hardy man; and, if any of
the number could be said to retain a small portion of self-
command* in the midst of the horrible scene of suffering

which surrounded them, it was this man. He was still
able to walk, though with difficulty, and continued to feed
the fire, going out occasionally and seizing on grubs that
were to be found about the mouth of the cavern. The
others were unable to follow his example, and even he lat-
terly was unfitted for his loathsome search. All were now
nearly in the same predicament: agony and despair reigned
throughout, to the exclusion of a single beam of hope of
any one ever again visiting the haunts of man. At Christie's
side, a woman ceased to groan ; an intermission of agony
was a circumstance, and the only circumstance to be
remarked. The thought struck him she was dead ; he laid
his hand upon her mouth to be assured of the fact ; she
was no more ! The dead body was a talisman in the temple
of misery — in a short time, that body was gone !

The Rubicon of the strongest of natural prejudices was
past, with the goading furies of hunger and despair behind.
A prejudice overcome is an acquisition of liberty, though it
may be for evil. The death of the woman had saved them
all from death ; but the efficacy of the salvation would post-
pone a similar course of relief. Christie saw the predica-
ment of his friends, and proposed, in the hollow, husky voice
of starvation, that one of their number should die by lot, and
that then, having recovered strength, they should proceed to
the mountain pass and procure victims. This oration was
received with groans, meant to be of applause. The lot of
death fell on another woman, who was sacrificed to the pre-
vailing demon. A consequent recovery of strength now fitted
the survivors for their dreadful task. They proceeded to the
mountain pass, headed by Christie, and killed a traveller, by
knocking him on the head with a hammer, and then removed
him to the cavern, where his body was treated in the same man-
ner as that of the woman on whom the lot of death had fallen.
They repeated this operation whenever their hunger return-
ed ; making no selection of their victims, unless when there
was a choice between a foot passenger and a horseman —
the latter of whom (always preferred for the sake of his
horse) was dragged from his seat with a large iron hook,
fixed to the end of a pole — an invention of Christie's, serving
afterwards to give him the dreadful name by Avhich he be-
came so well known. That which hunger at first suggested,
became afterwards a matter of choice, if not of fiendish
delight. The silent process of assuaging the pain, arising
from want, subsequently changed into a banquet of canni-
bals ; the song of revelry was sounded in dithyrambic
measure over the dead body of the victim, and the corry-
bantic dance of the wretches who required to still con-
science by noise, or die, was footed to the wild music which,
escaping from the cavern, rung among the hills. Such
were the obsequies which Scotchmen, resigning the nature
of man, amidst unheard of agonies, celebrated over the
corpses of their countrymen.

These things reached the ears of government ; and an
armed force was despatched to the hills to seize the canni-
bals. Several of them were caught; but Christie and
some others escaped, and were never captured. The bones
of their victims were collected, and conveyed to Perth ;
where, upon being counted, it appeared that they had killed
no fewer than thirty travellers. From these transactions,
sprung that name, Christiecleek, which is so familiar to the
ears of Scotchmen. "Christiecleek! Christiecleek!" became
instantly the national nursery bugbear. No child would cry
after the charmed name escaped from the lips of the nurse ;
and even old people shuddered at the mention of a term
which produced ideas so revolting to human nature, and so
derogatory of Scottish character. It is said that, some time
after the performance of the dreadful tragedy we have nar-
rated, an old man in the town of Dumfries, who had three
children by his wife, quarrelled her often for the use of a
term intended simply to pacify her children when they cried
but which he declared was too much even for his ears. He

160

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

was a respectable merchant, had earned a considerable
sum of money by his trade, and was reputed a most godly
man, attending divine service regularly, and performing all
the domestic duties with order and great suavity of manner.
His neighbours looked up to him with love and respect, and
solicited his counsel in their difficulties. His name — David
Maxwell — was applauded in the neighbourhood, and he
received great sympathy from all who knew him, in conse-
quence of having, as was reported, lost an only brother
among Christiecleek's victims — a fact he had concealed
from his wife, till her use of the name compelled him to
mention it to her, but which afterwards came to be well
known.

The silence of the mother had, however, no effect upon
the urchins, who, the more they were requested to cease
terrifying each other by the national terriculamentum,
" Christiecleek," the more terrible it appeared to them, and
the more they used it. If they abstained from the use of
the words in the presence of their parents, they were the
more ready to have recourse to it in the passages of the house,
and in the dark rooms, and wherever the dreaded being
might be supposed to be. The pastime was general through-
out Scotland ; and David Maxwell's children only followed
an example which has been repeated for five hundred years.
<c' Christiecleek ! — Christiecleek !" What Scotchman has not
heard the dreaded words? Time rolled on, and the Misses
Maxwell resigned their childish pastime for the duties of
women. Their father had become a very old man ; and the
attentions which their mother could not bestow, were willingly
yielded by the young women, who were remarked as being
very beautiful, as well as very good. They loved their fa-
ther dearly ; and looked upon their filial duties as willing
tributes of affection. After they became entrusted with the
secret, they substituted for the cry of their youth, which had
given their father so much pain, pity for the brother of the
victim of the execrated fiend.

At last, David Maxwell came to die ; and, as he lay on
his bed, surrounded by his wife and daughters, he seemed
to be wrestling with some dreadful thought which allowed
him no rest, but wrung from him, incessantly, heavy
groans and muttered prayers. His wife pressed him to
open his heart to her, or, if he was disinclined to repose that
confidence in her when dying, which he had awarded to
her so liberally during a long union, he should, she recom-
mended, send for Father John of the Monastery of St Agnes,
and be-shrived. The daughters wept as they heard these
melancholy statements, and the old man sympathised in
their sorrow, which seemed to give him additional pain. At
last he seemed inclined to be communicative, and, after a
struggle, said to his wife —

" Wha is to tak care o' my dochters when I am con-
signed to that cauld habitation whar a faither's love and
an enemy's anger are alike unfelt and unknown? My
effects will be sufficient for the support o' my household ;
but money, without a guardian, is only a temptation to
destroyers and deceivers. If I could get this point settled
to my satisfaction, I might die in peace."

" You never tauld me o' yer freens, David," said his
wife — " a circumstance that has often grieved me. The
hundreds o' Maxwells in the Stewartry and in Dumfries-
shire, surely contain among them some relation, however
distant ; but my uncle will act as guardian to our dochters,
and ye hae tried his honesty."

" Yet I dinna want relations," groaned the dying man.
" I hae a brither."

" A brither I" ejaculated the mother and daughters, in
astonishment ; " was he no killed by the monster, Christie-
cleek, in the Highland cavern ?"

" No," answered David, with great pain.

" Whar lives he, and what's his Christian name ?" cried
the wife, in amazement.

be

cls it his Christian name ye ask?" said the old man.
' Surely, D;'7id," replied the wife — " his surname maun
Maxwell."

' But it is not Maxwell," said he, still groaning.

' Not Maxwell !" said the wife. " What is it, then ?"

' Christie!" ejaculated David, with a groan.

The mention of this name acted as a talisman on the
minds of the wife and daughters, who, in the brother, saw
(as they thought) at once the hated Christiecleek, and found
an explanation of the horror which David Maxwell had
uniformly exhibited when the name was mentioned in his
presence. They had at last discovered the true solution
of what had appeared so wonderful ; and, having retired
for a few minutes, to allow their excitement to sub-
side, they, by comparing notes, came to the conclusion that
their father having been ashamed of his connection with
the unnatural being, had changed his name and dropped all
intercourse with him ; but that now, when he was aboul
to die, his feelings had overpowered him and forced him to
make the awful confession he had uttered. Pained and
shamed by this newly-discovered connection, they were
not regardless of what was due to him whose shame and
grief had been even greater than theirs, and, accordingly,
resolved to yield all the consolation in their power to the
good man who could not help having a bad brother. On
their return to the bedside, they found him in great agony
both of mind and body.

" This brither, David," said the wife, " I fear, is little
worthy o' your friendship, and the change o' your name is
doubtless the consequence o' a virtuous shame o' the connec-
tion. But can it be possible that he is that man o' the moun-
tain cavern, whose name terrifies the bairns o' Scotland, and
makes even the witches o' the glens raise their bony hands
in wonder and execration ? Tell us, David, freely, if this be
the burden which presses sae heavily on yer mind. Yer
wife and dochters will think nae less o' you for having been
unfortunate ; and consolation is never sae usefu as when it
is applied to a grief that is nae langer secret. The sur-
geon's skill is o' little avail when the disease is unknown."

This speech, containing apparently the fatal secret, pro-
duced a great effect upon the bed-ridden patient, who rolled
from side to side, and sawed the air with his sinewy hands,
like one in a state of madness.

" We were speakin o' guardians for my dochters," said
he at last, " and I said I had a brither whase surname is
Christie. You promised me consolation. Is this your
comfort to a deein man ? For twenty years, I have hated
the mention o' that dreadfu name ; and now, when I am
on my deathbed, speakin' o' curators for my bairns, ye
rack my ears by tellin me I am the brither o' Christiecleek !
Would Christiecleek be a suitable guardian for my doch-
ters ? Speak, Agnes — say if ye think Christiecleek would
tak care o' their bodies and their gowd as weel as he tended
the victims o' the Highland cave ?"

The wife saw she had gone too far, and begged his par-
don for having made the suggestion.

" Ye will forgive me, David," said she, " for the remark.
I hae dune ye great injustice ; for how is it possible to con-
ceive that sae guid a man could be sae nearly related to a
monster ? But ye hae to explain to me the change o' name.
How hae you and your brither different surnames ?"

" Because" said the dying man, turning round and star-
ing with lack-lustre eyes broadly in the face of his wife —
" Because I am Christiecleek !"

WILSON'S

, antr

TALES OF THE B011DEKS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SEA-STORM.

IT was a beautiful, calm afternoon in summer ; the surface
of the Solway was as smooth as glass, for it was just high-
water, and there was scarcely wind enough to dimple its
surface, or to raise the dense train of smoke which the
Liverpool steamer left behind her, as she came rapidly
and steadily bearing down from Port Carlisle towards Annan
water foot, where a crowd of passengers were anxiously
expecting her arrival. The air was so still that the sound
of her paddles, and the rush of water from her bows, were
distinctly heard at a great distance, and the toll of the bell
of Bowness Church fell full and clear upon the ears of the
dweller on the Scottish coast. Here and there a solitary
sea-gull soared lazily over his shadow in the water, and
then bending downwards, dipped his wing in the smooth
stream, rising up again with a sharp, quick turn, and a
shrill scream, which sounded rather ominously, particularly
as there was a kind of bright, hazy indistinctness hanging
over the whole scene, and a close, suffocating oppression in
the atmosphere, foretelling change and storm. The wooden
jetty at the water foot was crowded with people — some
about to embark for Liverpool, others attracted by curiosity,
and by the beauty of the afternoon. On the road near the
jetty lay a large flock of sheep, and several cattle, ready
for embarkation ; and Ambrose Clarke's Dumfries coach,
and other conveyances, stood at hand, ready to transfer
their freights into the steam-boat. It was altogether a
beautiful and exciting scene ; bright and joyous summer
seemed to have shed its cheering influence over the spirit
of man, as well as over the face of nature ; and, amid the
throng around me, I did not remark a single unhappy coun-
tenance. At length the steam-boat bore up for the mouth
of the Annan, and, after a great deal of manceuvering Avith
the paddles, Avas laid safely along-side the jetty. Then
came the tug of Avar, and the peaceful quiet of the
calm afternoon Avas disturbed by the loud and various
sounds of embarkation. The bleating of sheep, the belloAv-
ing of cattle, the loud shouts of their drivers ; the elboAving
and jostling of passengers of various classes making a rush
on board, dragging after them their trunks or portmanteaus,
•egardless of legs or elboAvs in their progress ; and, over and
above all, the loud, deafening, rushing, roaring noise of
the steam, like the voice of some giant bellowing to them
all to be as quick as possible — converted the late quiet scene
into one of Babel-like confusion. At length the sheep were
comfortably Avedged up together, and the cattle secured ;
and then the bell rang as a Avarning to those Avho Avere
going, to stay on board, and to those who Avere staying on
board too long, to take their departure.

While standing on the jetty, I had exchanged a feAV com-
monplace remarks with a frank, middle-aged, gentlemanly-
looking man standing near me, Avho, like myself, Avas en route
for Liverpool; and when the steamboat was fairly cff, I
made up to my neAV acquaintance again, and we had a long and
amusing conversation together. To those Avho are fond .of
studying human character, and Avho derive amusement from
observing its numerous varieties, a public conveyance of
any kind is an interesting study — a cabinet in Avhich they
125. VOL. TTI.

may chance to meet Avith strange and rare specimens to
add to their collection of human originals. I do not envy
the man Avho seems to think the Avarning bell of the steam-
boat, or the shutting of the door of the stage-coach, a signal
to him to close tfie door of his mouth and ears ; and Avho
can doze aAvay in a corner, uninterested and uninteresting,
and leaves the conveyance, as he entered it, dull and heavy,
uncomfortable and discontented himself, and a species of
incubus upon the spirits of his companions.

We had only left our port about two hours when the sky
began to overcast, and heavy clouds rose slowly from the
horizon. The Avind seemed to be aAvaiting in silence,
and reserving its strength for the approaching conflict of
the elements ; for there Avas not a breath stirring ; the sea
birds shrieked around us, as if to Avarn us of approaching
danger ; and the smoke from the engine fire hung heavily
over the deck, and covered the water around us, as if to
hide us from the coming storm. At length the forerunner
of the squall appeared in the shape of a broad, bright,
sudden blaze of lightning, folloAved by a rattling peal of
thunder, Avhich seemed to have burst open the flood-gates of
heaven, for the rain descended in torrents from the over-
charged clouds, Avhile flash followed flash, and peal followed
peal in rapid succession. A light breeze soon springing up from
;he south, the flashes of lightning became less and less vivid;
and Ave heard, afar off, the IOAV groAvling of the thunder, as
;he clouds sloAvly and unAvillingly retreated before the wind,
vhich now freshened up rapidly. In a short time it bleAV a
»ale, and occasioned such a heavy sea that most of the
mssengers were driven beloAV by the violent motion of the
vessel. I, being an old stager, preferred the cool breeze on
deck to the close, confined air of the cabin ; and, to my great
urprise, saAv my new and agreeable acquaintance Avalking up
and doAvn the deck as unconcernedly as if the boat Avere
ying at the jetty.

" You seem to have excellent sea legs, sir," said I ; te you
valk the deck Avith the confidence of one to Avhom such
unsteady footing is familiar ; you do not look like a sailor,
>ut still I am greatly mistaken if this is the first time you
lave been in a gale of Avind."

" You are right," replied he, " in both your conjectures ;
am not a sailor by profession, and I have been in many a
jale. I owe the greatest happiness of my life to a storm ana
s consequences."

" Indeed !" said I ; " if ti is not asking too much, will
ou favour me Avith an account of the adventure to Avhich
ou allude ? — it AviL serve to beguile the time till AVC
lira in."

" With all my heart," said he ; " and Avith the greater
pleasure, because' I perceive you are a sailor, and Avill under-
tand me. If you find me tedious, remember you have
ourself to blame for the infliction."

" When I Avas a youngster, I Avas sent out by my friends
o join a mercantile house in Bombay, of Avhich my father
.ad formerly been a partner. After labouring for some
ears as clerk, I \vas admitted as junior member of the firm,
nd being considered a stirring man of business, I Avas sent
jy the heads of the house as supercargo of one of their
hips trading to the Straits, and China. It was in this way I

16?

TALES OF THE BOilDERS

acquired the sea-legs on which you have been pleased to
compliment me ; and, what was still more to the purpose,
I managed well for my employers, and added considerably
to my own resources.

Fortune smiled upon all my private mercantile specula-
tions; and, in the course of a few years, I amassed what I con-
sidered a comfortable competency. As my constitution
although it had been severely tried, was still tolerably
unimpaired, I thought it wiser to return home at once, to
enjoy the moderate fruits of my labour, than to risk my
health in the endeavour to add to my means. I accordingly
retired from the firm, wound up my affairs, transferred my
money to the English funds, and took my passage in a
country ship to China. From thence I embarked in a fine
Indiaman of 1000 tons burthen, called the Columbine,
br.und to England, and to touch at the Cape of Good Hope.
Our passage was quick and pleasant ; and I greatly enjoyed
our fortnight's stay at the Cape, where our party was greatly
increased, by the addition of a lady and gentleman to our
cabin circle. The gentleman was a retired surgeon of the
Indian army, and one of the funniest little Sancho Panza
figures I ever beheld. When he first stept over the gang-
way, there was a general titter among the crew at his strange
appearance. He was dressed in a little scarlet shell-jacket ;
a pair of wide Indian-made continuations of nankeen, with
stockings as nearly as possible of the same colour ; a
little black velvet hunting-cap, stuck on one side over
his round, fat, rosy face ; a walking-cane in one hand —
(a walking-cane on board a ship !) — and a leather bottle,
suspended by a belt from his shoulders. On further ac-
quaintance, I found he was as odd in character as in appear-
ance. He was a regular old bachelor, fidgety and particular.
His countenance bespoke him a lover of the good things of
this life — and it did not belie him, for dearly did he enjoy
them all ; nothing came amiss to him, that came in a perish-
able shape, provided it had all the " appliances and means to
boot" of the culinary art. It was really quite a treat to
hear the smack of genuine pleasure (a kind of partivg-sahtte,
a token of good-will and kindly feeling) which followed the
engulfment of every mouthful of the captain's excellent
claret — and his mouth, like the Irishman's, held exactly
a glass ; and then his little dark eye twinkled with antici-
pated delight, as it wandered discursively over the cuddy
table, when the covers were raised at dinner. And yet with
all this spice of epicurism and apparent selfishness, he was
liberal, kind-hearted, and obliging. He had been so long
absent from home that he had become completely Indianizcd;
and his strange opinions and expectations respecting Eng-
land, were in the highest degree ludicrous.

The lady was a young widow, who had accompanied her
husband, a Madras civilian, many years her senior, to the
Cape, in the hopes of re-establishing his health ; but it was
too late — the hand of death was upon him, and he had
been taken from her about six months before our arrival.
She remained at the Cape, waiting for expected letters
from Madras, and then determined upon proceeding to
Europe. She came on board in mourning and in tears : the
sight of the ship seemed to have re-awakened the memory of
him she regretted ; and she did not for some time take her
place at the cuddy table, nor appear among the other pas-
sengers. Now and then, in the calm moonlight evenings,
she came stealing up like a shadow, and wandered listlessly
up and down the deck, leaning on the captain's arm, or
bending over the bulwark of the poop, gazing mournfully
on the waves below. Time, with the absence of all objects
that could revive her painful recollections, soon had the
effect of soothing her grief; and after we had crosesd the
Line, she was persuaded to join the cuddy party. She was
young ; and, without being decidedly beautiful, was one of
the most interesting looking females I had ever met with.
There was an air of milda uncomplaining resignation in her

look and manner, which irresistibly attracted sympathy and
admiration. During the bustling scenes of my life in various
parts of the East, I had met with all varieties and shades of
beauty, and, strange to say, had passed unharmed and
" fancy-free" through the ordeal of whole constellations of
bright and beaming eyes. Love had hitherto been a stranger
to me ; I had read of it, talked of it, heard of it, but had
never felt its overpowering influence ; and I had begun to
doubt whether I had a heart at all, at least for the tender
passion. But I now soon found that I had been mistaken,
and that I had feelings and tender ones too, as well as those
whom I had been in the habit of ridiculing for them. I
could hardly analyze them at first, they were so various and
contradictory. I began with admiration of the widow's
expressive countenance and gentle manner. I was loud in
her praise to every one who would listen to me : " If ever
there was an angel on earth," (afloat,! should have said,) "she
is one." I eagerly sought every opportunity of throwing
myself in her way, till I happened to overhear one of the
officers calling me " the widow's shadow." Then, all at once,
I felt confused whenever her eyes met mine; the warm
blood rushed to my cheeks, and a flutter of nerve came over
me, whenever she spoke to me. I gradually withdrew from
her society ; lost my appetite; became fond of solitary walks;
and was seized with a most extraordinary oppression of the
lungs, which obliged me to sigh continually.

" Hollo, Wentworth !" said the officer of the deck to me
one night, " what is the matter with you ? There was a
sigh like the blowing of a grampus !" He was an old friend
of mine, and as kind-hearted a rough diamond as ever
breathed.

" I don't know, Wildman," replied I ; "• I'm afraid my
liver is terribly out of order."

" Liver !" said he, with a loud laugh — "• tell that to the,
marines ; I suspect it's the heart that's out of trim more
than the liver." And so saying, he walked forward to hail
the foretop, and left me to my meditations. He left me an
enlightened man; his words had flashed conviction on my mind.

" And so," muttered I, " lam actually in love! " How
strange that the novelty of my emotions should so
long have blinded me to their nature! Heigho ! But
why the plague should I sigh about it ? Love ! No, no ;
I'm sure I'm going to have an attack of liver. I wonder if
she likes me?"

" Why don't you ask her ?" said my sailor friend, who
had returned unobserved to his place at my elbow, and had
overheard the last part of my soliloquy. " Come, come,
Wentworth/' said he, seeing that I look'd rather annoyed,
" don't be angry with me ; you have been like the bird that
hides its head in the sand, and fancies no one can see it ;
but I have long observed your growing partiality for the fair
widow, and 1 admire your taste — she is a prize worth try-
ing for. Take a friend's advice, and, if you are in a marry-
ing mood, put your modesty under hatches, and make a bold
stroke for a wife at once."

" Oh, nonsense, Wildman! — how can you talk so foolishly?
She is in such affliction ! I could not dream of following youi
advice ; it would be indelicate in the extreme at present."

" Ay, it is too soon to come to close quarters yet ; but
there is nothing like laying an anchor to windward in time.
Play at long balls with her, my boy. Stand in a corner, arid
;aze in admiring silence ; send u few well -aimed die-away
lances through her, and play off a sigh or two now and
then, backed by a little sentiment. Why, man, a broadside
of such red-hot sighs as yours would riddle her heart,
and make her strike her colours at once, if you had but
mirage to lay her alongside."

Whether it was that I tacitly followed my friend's advice,
or that my unconscious silent attentions had made thf»
mpression he anticipated, it so came to pass that, in a short
;ime, the fair widow seemed to feel a pleasure in my society

TALES O* THE BORDERS.

163

beyond that of any other on board. A slight degree of mutual
good understanding soon ripens into intimacy on board a ship,
where circumstances throw people into such close and con-
stant communion ; the flimsy veil of mere artificial politeness
is soon seen through, and the character of each individual
shews itself in its true colours. The more I saw of hers, the
more I admired it ; she was so free from the petty vanities
of the sex, and so sweet and equable in her temper. She wa
the daughter of a highly respectable physician in the west of
England, whose professional income had enabled him to be-
stow on all his family a liberal education, and to bring them up
suitably to their apparent prospects, and to the station he ex-
pected them to fill in society. Her elder brother had gone
out to India in a mercantile capacity, and had returned home
to recruit his health in his native vale. During the inter-
val of his visit, his father, who had long been in declin-
ing health, died, and, contrary to expectation, left his child-
ren but poorly provided for ; and the brother, after having
arranged the family affairs, and placed the juniors under the
guardianship of an old and tried friend, persuaded his sister
to accompany him to the East. When they arrived at
Madras, my fair friend, whom I shall call Emily, was not
.ong without admirers. Among others was an elderly civil-
ian, high in the service, of great wealth and irreproachable
character. He urged his suit with the greatest assiduity ;
and, notwithstanding Emily's evident coldness, he laid his
heart and fortune at her feet.

All Emily's friends were urgent with her not to reject
so advantageous a settlement. Her brother said nothing
on the subject, but she had learned to read his wishes in
l:is countenance. She thought of the almost destitute state
of her family at home, and of the opportunities which the
wealth and liberality of so excellent a man might afford
her of benefiting them; and, after a long struggle of contend-
ing feeling, she consented to become the wife of Mr Stacey.
He was for two years all he had promised — affectionate,
considerate, and attentive to her slightest wishes. She
respected and esteemed him, and, when she closed his eyes
in a foreign land, she mourned for him as a sincere and
valued friend. He had left her by his will the sole and
uncontrolled command of his large fortune ; and she was
now returning home to comfort the declining years of her
mother, and rejoicing in the thought that her wealth
would enable her effectually to promote the interests of the
junior members of her family.

But I must proceed to other matters. Our passage
from the Cape had been a long, but to me a most delightful
one, and we were expecting to make the Lizard next day.
The captain was very anxious to have a good land-fall, as
his best chronometer had met with an accident a few days
before, and he was rather doubtful as to its correctness.
The breeze was light and fair, and the waves were breaking
*hort and crisp, curling their little white crests as they rose
ai/d fell in rapid succession ; but there was a long, heavy
under- swell from the southward, which gave rise to many
an ominous shake of the head among the experlgnc'td hinds
on board. For my part, I dreaded no danger, and I enjoyed
to the utmost the really beautiful scene around me. There
was nothing, to be sure, to be seen but sea and sky ; but
it was beautiful and boundless nature — nature in her
solitude and strength. There were no crowds of human
beings jostling and hurrying past each other, as in the
haunts of man and of art ; but there was the glorious sun,
shining in almost unclouded splendour — the sea with its
playful waves dancing and smiling in the sunbeam, and
teeming with life and energy. Whole shoals of flying fish
quivered their little wings, glittering like silver in the sun,
and then dropped fluttering into the waters ; while those
" hunters of the sea," dolphins, and bonitos, and albecores,
darted leaped, and plunged in pursuit of thecn — sometimes
rising six or seven abreast, and making immense flying

leaps together, as if emulating each other, and putting to
shame the steeple-chasing " lords of creation." My attention
was diverted from the water by the gradual heeling over of
the vessel, and the creaking noise of the blocks as the
freshening breeze gave additional tension to the tacks and
sheets ; at the same time, I heard one of the men muttering
to another, as they stood by the royal cluelines —

This here breeze is a-freshening fast, Bill. I does'nt
like to see them beggars a-galloping round the ship like
so many mad horses; and look how the cat's a-whisking
about ! There's a gale of wind in her tail, I'll take my
"davy."

" Man the royal cluelines '." shouted the officer of the
watch. " Haul taut ! In royals !"

^ As soon as the royals were furled, the boatswain piped to
dinner ; the men went below, and I hastened to my cabin.
As I sat at the open port, I could not help recalling the
conversation I had overheard, and, looking out, I observed
that the clouds were rapidly rising from the southward, and
forming into dense dark masses ; and I was aware, from
the increasing motion of the ship, and the long, crashing rush
of the sea under the counter, that the breeze was freshening.
" The fellow is a true prophet, after all," muttered I to
myself; and, just as I spoke, the ship gave a heavy lurch,
and my book-case, which was badly secured, Jetched way,
and, with a heavy crash, fell on the deck. Fortunately,
there was but little mischief done to my books, and I sent
for one of the carpenter's mates to secure the case again.
Scarcely had the poor fellow left my cabin, after having
finished his work, when I heard the sharp warning livcct,
trveet of the boatswain's call instantly echoed from three
different parts of the lower deck ; then came the sound of
hurrying feet, and then a long, leud, shrill whistle, followed
by a hoarse cry of " All hands reef topsails, ahoy !" then
were heard the loud, clear orders, " In topgallautsails !
Lower away the topsails !" followed by the whirring, rattling
sound of blocks, and the dull flapping of the sails, as the
yards were pointed to the wind. Poor Evans, the carpenter's
mate of whom I spoke above, was stationed on the foretop-
sailyard, and in his hurry to lay out, his foot slipped, he lost
his hold of the yard, and fell head-foremost downwards.
The ship was rolling to windward at the time, so that he
fell outside the bulwark, struck the anchor in his descent,
and must have been senseless when he reached the surface
of the water; for, although he went down head-foremost, he
struck out mechanically, as if endeavouring to dive, and
never rose again. For an instant this sudden and dreadful
accident paralysed both officers and men ; but it was only
for an instant.

" Poor fellow !" said the commanding officer — " he's gone ;
Come, bear a hand, there aloft ! Lay out ! — lay out ! Tie
away ! — lay down !"

Again the trveet, tweet was heard ; " Hoist away !" was
the order ; and, with a quick and steady tramp, a hundred
feet kept time with the merry notes of the fife. The sails
were set, the yards trimmed, and, under her reduced canvass,
the ship bounded along with greater lightness and ease,
But the face of nature was no longer smiling : the heavy
masses of clouds had risen from the southern horizon, one
dense body seeming to push another upwards, as it rose
from the gulf of darkness, till the whole surface of the
heavens xvas covered with a veil of gloomy and wildly-driving
clouds. The waves were no longer, as Wilson says, " like
playful lambs on a mountain's side," but were rushing after
each other like wild beasts in search of prey. It was evi-
dent that the breeze was freshening fast; but, as it was still
free, the ship was making rapid way through the water.
I will pass over the next twenty-four hours, during which
the breeze continued strong, but steady. At about five P.M.
of the next day, a darkness like that of night hung over the
horizon to windward, which gradually rose in the centre.

164

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

a hard, clear, well-defined arch, which rapidly
enlarged and enlarged, the centre part becoming dim with
driving rain.

" Call the hands out — reef topsails !" shouted the captain ;
and again all was bustle and animation. The sound of the
boatswain's cry was hardly out of our ears, before the men
were on deck, full of eagerness and emulation, their energies
seeming to rise in proportion to the demand upon them.
Our topsails were double-reefed and on the caps when the
squall struck us ; we could hear it howling over the water
long before it reached us, the rain driving fiercely before it,
mixed with the spray of the waves, which was dashed abroad
like mist.

" Lower the driver ! — man the gear of the mainsail !"

" All ready, sir !"

" Up mainsail !"

The men who were stationed at the mainsheet unfor-
tunately let it run through their hands ; the sail bellied up
over the leeyardarm, gave one loud, heavy flap, and, with a
report like that of a cannon, split right across, and was
blown in pieces, and the tattered remnants fluttered from
the yard, as if struggling to escape, and cracking like ten
thousand whips. As soon as the blast had expended its
fury, the fragments of the mainsail were unbent, and a new
sail got up in their place.

"Away, aloft there, topmen ! — get the topgallantyardi
ready for coming down !" was now the cry.

" All ready forward, sir !"

" Ready abaft ?"

lf All ready, sir !"

" Haul taut! — sway away! — high enough ! — lower away!
And, in a few minutes, the topgallantyards were safel;
landed on deck, and secured on the booms.

Hitherto the weather had been dry and fine, except during
(he squalls ; but, as the night closed in, a thick, drizzling
rain came on, which drove all the passengers below.

The ship was now plunging and rolling heavily, and the
white foam of the long tumbling seas looked doubly ghastly
through the gloom, while their roaring formed dismal harmony
with the howling of the wind.

Our party was small at the cuddy-table that evening, when
we met at eight bells (eight o'clock) to discuss our hot grog and
negus. Some of the gentlemen were sick, others tired, and
some alarmed at the appearance of things around them.

The mercury in the barometer had fallen considerably ; and
the captain, as he sat at the table rallying some of his pas-
sengers on the extraordinary length of their phizzes, was
evidently assuming a cheerfulness he did not feel ; and at
times looked absent and uneasy.

" Has not the glass fallen very fast, captain?" said one
of the military officers.

" Yes," replied he, " a little. That question recalls to my
recollection a most ridiculous circumstance that occurred on
board a free trader, of which I was mate. I was keeping
the middle watch on a beautiful night, when a fine light
breeze filled all the small kites, and the weather was looking
remarkably steady and clear. All at once the captain came
running out in his nightcap and slippers, looked at the
compass, and then aloft, and said — 'What kind of night is it
Mr Darby ?'

" ' Very fine, sir; steady breeze, smooth water; every stitch
of sail set that will draw.'

" ' Take in all your small sails, sir, as fast as you can;
the glass has fallen considerably since I turned in ; we are
going to have a breeze.'

" I looked at him with surprise, and then to windward; butto

hear was to obey — the stunsails, smallstaysails, and royals
were taken in. This was scarcely done, when the captain
again made his appearance. ' Darby, the glass is fallin
fast-

" ' Sir !' answered I, staring at him with astonishment.
" ' Bear a hand, sir, and get the sail off the ship/ said he,
iharply.

" ' His orders were obeyed, greatly to the surprise of all on
board. But even this did not appear to satisfy him. He
came on deck again, and this time I kept at a most respect-
ful distance, for I really began to think his head was cracked,
and that he might perhaps wish to try how I would look in
the same predicament.

" ' It's very odd, Darby,' said he ; ' I don't understand it;
the glass is still falling ; come and look at it.'

" 1 went with him into his cabin, where the barometer was
hanging near his cot with a swinging lamp beside it. The
mercury was very low, uncommonly so ; but, while I was
looking at it, I heard a heavy drop upon the deck, and,
looking'downwards, I saw something glittering below the lamp.
I stooped to look what it was, and the mystery was solved at
once : there was a hole in the bottom of the tube, and the
mercury had been oozing out. The captain looked very
foolish at first, and then, staring me full in the face, burst
into an uproarious fit of laughter, in which I heartily joined
him. At daybreak the hands were called out again ; but for
a very different purpose. " Crack on everything!" was now
the cry ; and we were soon spanking along again under
a crowd of canvass. But you are not to suppose," continued
Captain Darby, "from this anecdote, that I mean to depreciate
the value of the marine barometer ; it is the seaman's in-
valuable friend — a prophet whose warnings are not to be
disregarded. Many and many a time has it enabled me to
prepare in time for a coming gale, which would otherwise
have assailed me unawaree."

" The gale is freshening fast, sir," said an officer, putting
lis head into the cuddy door. The captain hurried out,
and gave orders for reefing the courses ; and, during the
vhole of that long, and, to us, miserable night, all hands
vere kept constantly at work ; and we heard the loud orders
»f the officers, and the cries of the answering seamen, con-
'usedly and at intervals, through the roaring of the wind
and the rushing of the seas. I slept, or rather lay — for I could
not sleep — in one of the round-house cabins ; the edge of my
cot, at every roll of the ship, knocking against the beams
'rom which it was suspended ; and I was every now and
then nearly jerked out by the violent pitching, when the
ihip seemed as if she were endeavouring to dive head-
'oremost into the depths, to escape the violence of the winds.
The ladies' cabins were abaft the round-house ; the fair
widow's divided from mine only by a thin bulkhead. I would
have given all I was worth to be allowed to sit near her, to
revive her spirits and to soothe her fears. I was aware that
she was dreadfully alarmed ; for, whenever the vessel
staggered under the overwhelming attacks of the sea, I
heard from her cabin a shuddering of nervous terror. The
gentlemen passengers actually envied the poor seamen who
were exposed to the pelting of the pitiless storm : they were
actively employed, the excitement of the moment left no time
for reflection — besides, storm, tempest, and danger, were their
elements ; but we lay idleand helpless, knowing justenough of
our danger to imagine it to be much greater — brooding over the
chimeras of our own fancies, and anticipating we knew not
what of approaching calamity The continual creak, creak,
creaking of the bulkheads — the pattering of the thick
shower of spray upon our decks, following the dull heavy
"• thud" of some giant sea which made the ship reel and
tremble through every timber — the cries of the seamen,
heard indistinctly and at intervals, and then borne far
away to leeward on the gale, as if the spirits of the air were

shrieking above and around us — formed altogether a fearful
medlev ot wild sounds. At length, towards morning, nothing

f_ was heard on deck but the deep moaning voice of the

all the hands out, double reef the topsails, and down jj gale, and the roar of the sea; but new and more ominous

topgallant and royal yards.'

1 1 sounds arose from the lower deck: there was the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

165

monotonous clanking of the pumps, and the rush of water
from side to side of the ship, as she rolled heavily and
deeply. I could lie in my cot no longer — my nerves were
worked up to such a state of excitement ; and I rushed on
deck to breathe the fresh air, and to see the state of affairs
there. It was to me a beautiful, though awful sight. The
sun was just beginning to rise ; and the lurid, threatening,
angry glare he shed over the horizon,- gave additional
horror to the gloomy scene. The ship looked almost
wreck to my eyes. The topgallantmasts had been got on
deck ; the booms were crowded with wet sails and rigging ;
the small ropes aloft were bellying out with the wind, and
then striking violently against the masts with the roll of
the ship ; the hatches were battened down ; lifelines were
stretched along from the poop to the forecastle ; heavy
seas were striking the bow, every now and then pouring
volumes of clear blue water over the decks, while the
spray flew like a thick shower over head, nearly half-mast
high ; the horizon all round was pitchy black, except where
a dull, hazy, fiery gleam marked its eastern verge ; the
surface of the water was one wide sheet of white foam,
glistening through the gloom; and the strength of the gale
seemed absolutely to blow the tops off the giant seas, and
scattered them abroad in showers of spoon drift. The
deck was deserted, except by the captain and the officer of
the watch — one watch of the men having been sent below to
the pumps, and the other to their hammocks. The captain
was standing under the lee of the weather bulwark, holding
on by the main-brace, looking pale and exhausted ; near
him, with his arm round the poop ladder, stood the officer
of the watch, muffled up in his pea-jacket, his eyes red
and inflamed, and speaking in a low, husky whisper, his
voice being completely broken with the exertion of the
night.

" Ah, Mr Wentworth," said the captain, when I made
my appearance, "• you are soon tired of your cot. I did not
expect to see any of you idlers on deck in such weather as this."

" It is more pleasant here than down below, I should
think, Captain Darby. Sleep is out of the question. I hope
the gale is not going to last much longer ?"

" There is no chance of its moderating at present," said
he ; " the glass is still falling, and the appearance of the
weather is as bad as it well can be !"

" Whereabouts aie we now, captain? Are we not very
near the English coast ?"

" Yes — we're not very far from it ; I hope we shall
make the land soon."

I asked one or two more questions, which the captain
evidently evaded answering. I accordingly desisted from
my inquiries ; but a dark and undefined presentiment of
evil came over me, which I strove in vain to shake off.
Finding the captain so uncommunicative, and the spray,
that was constantly dashing over the decks, anything but
comfortable, I thought my wisest plan would be to crawl to
my cot again. On my way to my cabin, I lingered for a
few minutes under the poop awning, and happened to over-
hear the captain say, in a low voice, to the chief mate —

" Charters, I wish the sun would shew his face again — I
don't like this groping work. I'd give a hundred pounds to
be as many miles to the westward — we are much too near a
lee shore, for my taste."

'•' Oh, sir, we shall, perhaps, see some of the pilot boats
soon, and then we shall be right enough."

" Ten chances to one against it," replied the other, " in
such weather as this. However, we will fire a gun every
five minutes, in case any of them should be cruising in our
neighbourhood. I wish \ve had bent our cables before this
gale set in. As soon as the hands are called out, we will
bend them, and get the anchors clear, that we may be pre-
pared for the worst."

"Ay, ay, sir."

This was pretty comfort for me; but, as I knew that
talking would not mend matters, I did not mention what I
had heard to any of the other passengers. A very short
time had elapsed when the hands were called out, and the
orders of the captain were carried into effect as actively as
possible. It was a work of considerable difficulty and no
little danger, to bend the cables, as the ship was plunging
and rolling awfully, and every now and then taking green
seas over all, and volumes of water rushed through the open
hawse-hole into the lower deck. At last it was accom-
plished, and the men had a temporary respite from their
labour. The gale, sn far from moderating, rather increased
in fury ; but the leak had not gained upon us, and the
maintopmast still seemed to stand stiffly up to the gale,
with the close- reefed sail upon it. About four o'clock in
the afternoon, a heavy sea struck the quarter, filled one
quarter boat, and broke it away from the tackles, and stove
the other ; and at the same time the ship lurched so deeply,
that the muzzles of her quarterdeck guns were buried in
the water, one of the maintopmast backstays gave way,
and the mast, with a loud crash, went toppling over the
side. I was standing under the poop awning at the time,
and was nearly washed off my feet by a body of water
rushing out of the cuddy ; and, at the same jtime, I heard the
screaming of the ladies in the after cabin. I ran aft, and,
knocking at the fair widow's door, was immediately admitted,
and found everything in the greatest confusion, and herself
in extreme alarm. The sea had burst in the quarterport,
and deluged the cabin with water ; the deck was strewed
with furniture, dashing and tumbling about with the motion
of the ship ; and Emily herself was clinging to one of the
stancheons, pale with terror, and drenched to the skin.
" Oh, Mr Wentworth !" was all she could utter, before she
fell fainting into my arms. I will not enter into a descrip-
tion of my feelings at that moment, when the only woman
I had ever truly loved was lying helpless in my embrace ;
suffice it that I felt I could die for her. In a short time she
revived ; and, blushing deeply, apologized for the trouble
and alarm she had occasioned me. My heart was on my
lips. I had hitherto, from a feeling of delicacy, abstained
from expressing all I felt towards her ; but now she looked
so lovely, so gentle, so confiding, that I was just on the
point of giving utterance to the emotions of my heart, when
the entrance of the servants, coming to secure the furniture,
interrupted the unseasonable disclosure. I then hastened
on deck, where a sight awaited me which almost paralysed
my excited nerves. The ship was lying to, but anything
but lying still, under the storm mainstaysail ; the wreck of
the maintopmast was hanging down the lee-mainrigging,
banging backwards and forwards with the motion of the
ship ; the men were clinging like cats to the mainrigging,
actively employed in endeavouring to secure and clear away
the wreck ; the wind had drawn more round to the east-
ward, and was blowing a perfect hurricane — when all at
once a loud cry was heard from the forecastle of " Breakers
on the leebeam !" and their white tumbling crests were
soon distinctly seen by all on deck, and it was evident we
were fast approaching them. For an instant there was a

Eause of dead silence among the crew ; officers and men
>oked at each other and at the breakers, with blank dis-
may. The sharp, quick, distinct tones of the captain's
voice startled them into habitual attention and activity.

" Stations, wear ship ! hard up with the helm ! run up
the forestaysail ! square away the afteryards !"

The staysail just bellied out with the gale, and blew to
rags ; the ship fell off for a moment, and then flew up to
the wind again •' Cut away the mizenmast !" was the
next order ; and, in five minutes, the tall mast fell crashing
over the side. The helm was again put up ; but in vain—the
ship would not pay off, and we were bodily and rapidly
drifting down upon the breakers.

166

TALES OF THE BOltDEKS.

« Have both Dower eabies clear below, and all ready with
the sheet !" shouted the captain.

I ran, or rather staggered, as fast as I could to the after
cabin, and requested admittance. Emily was there, looking
dreadfully pale. I suppose my countenance betrayed the
agitation of my mind ; for she instantly exclaimed— and her
demeanour was unnaturally calm and collected, though her
voice trembled, and her cheek was blanched with terror —

" Is there any hope, Mr Wentworth ? Tell me the worst j
I am prepared "for it, and can bear it calmly ?" I hesitated.
" You need not speak," said she — " your silence tells me
there is no hope."

" There is, indeed, none," replied I, " but in the mercy of
an overruling Providence! In another hour, our doom,
whether for life or for death, will be sealed."

1 saw the pang of agony that flitted across her counte-
nance at this intelligence : she gasped for breath, and seemed
is if about to faint ; but she immediately recovered herself,
and, looking upwards, with mild resignation, she murmured
— " It is a painful trial ; but His will be done.'' By my
advice she put on some warmer but lighter clothing, and
I then supported her to the quarterdeck. I felt the shud-
dering of her frame when the awful sight of approaching
destruction was before her. The scene, altogether, was
one to appal the bravest — to make the boldest "hold his
breath ;" never will the remembrance of it be erased from
my mind ; and, to this hour, it sometimes haunts my dreams.
Scarcely half a mile to leeward lay the coast — dark, frown-
ing, precipitous, and apparently inaccessible ; its lower line
completely hidden from our view; but, at intervals, the dark
and rugged summits of the rocks were seen, through the
sheets of white foam dashed over them by the breakers.
To windward the prospect was as cheerless : darkness was
beginning to settle on the waters, and, in the distance,
nothing was to be seen but the foam of the crested seas,
flashing indistinct and ghastly through the gloom. Viewed
by that uncertain light, and rising in such various waving
forms, they seemed to my over-wrought fancy as if the sea
had given up her dead, and the spirits of the departed were
assembling on the waters, to witness our approaching fate.
The ship was already almost a wreck : the mizenmast was
still hanging alongside, having smashed the poop hammock
nettings, and bulwark, in its fall ; the stumps of the fore
and maintopmast were all that remained aloft ; the giant
seas were dashing over the sides, deluging the decks, fore
and aft, and blinding us with their thick showers of spray ;
the lower yardarms dipped into the water, as the half
water-logged ship rolled heavily and deeply, groaning and
trembling in every timber, like a living creature in its
mortal agony. And then the accompaniments ! — oh ! how
often since have I in fancy heard again the hollow, ominous
moaning of the gale, mourning, as it were, over the wreck of
:ts own violence ; the roaring of the waters as they rose,
and rushed, and dashed against our side ; the dull, mourn-
ful, dirge-like sound of our minute guns ; the shuddering
cries of the timid ; the curses and imprecations of the
hardened and desperate ! Oh, if the recollection of it be so
appalling, what must have been the reality ?

Some of the men were actively employed in endeavour-
ing to clear away the wreck of the mizenmast ; others
cutting adrift the small booms and spars, and all such light
articles as might be instrumental in bearing them to the
shore ; and the passengers, and those who were unemployed,
were gazing, in the gloomy silence of despair, upon their
approaching destruction. I saw that there was no hope,
and that the last straggle was fast approaching I lashed
the trembling and weeping Emily to a spar, and whispered
in her ear — "• Pray to the Ruler of the winds and waves,
dearest Emily ! He can save when there is none other to
help !" She pressed my hand in silerce, smiled througl
lier tears, and looked upwards.

We had only one resource left now, and that was one of
feeble promise — both bower anchors were cut away — the
cables ran out to the clinches, and snapt like threads ; the
sheet cable shared the same fate.

" I knew it," exclaimed the captain — " I knew it was in
vain. No hemp that ever was twisted could stand the
strain of such a sea and breeze. It is all over with us now!
Every man look out for his own safety ! You had better
lash yourselves to the spars, my lads !"

The momentary check given to the ship brought her
broadside round to the breakers. Never shall I forget the
cold shudder which came over me when the vessel rose
upon the crest of an enormous sea, and seemed to be bal-
ancing herself for a moment, as if loath to meet her doom ;
another instant, and she struck with a shock that made us
all start from the deck, and a crash as if the whole fabric
were falling to pieces beneath us. Again she was lifted by
the sea, and dashed on the rocks nearer the shore, when she
fell over on her side with her masts towards the beach,
along which parties of men were hurrying, dimly visible in
the dusk of evening , eager but unable to afford us assistance ;
while the heights above were thronged with country people,
who had been attracted to the spot by the report of our
guns. The sea which had dashed us on our broadside,
swept away with it the boats, booms, spars — everything, in
fact, from the upper deck ; and bore its promiscuous prey
onwards towards the beach. What was my agony to see
the spar to which Emily was lashed, sharing the fate of the
rest ! She tossed her arms wildly over her head, gave one
shrill and piercing scream, and was borne away and hidden
from my view by the following sea. " I will save her," I
exclaimed, " or perish." The hull of the stranded ship
formed a kind of breakwater, and the sea was comparatively
smooth under her lee.

I had stripped myself, in preparation for the coming
struggle, of all superfluous clothing ; and, crawling out as
far as possible on the mainmast, I committed myself fear-
lessly to the sea, which was to me quite a familiar element.
A few vigorous strokes, and the friendly elevation of a
rising wave, gave me a sight of Emily ; and I immediately
swam towards her, and by partly supporting myself on the
spar, and directing it towards the shore, I was fortunate
enough to succeed in bearing my precious charge in safety
to the beach, against which we were dashed with great
violence, but fortunately without any injury. She was
quite insensible, and lay on the sand so still and pale that
at first my heart died within me ; I thought she was gone
for ever.

" Emily ! dearest Emily !" I frantically exclaimed.
A faint sigh was the answer. The sudden revulsion
from grief to transport, at this assurance that life was not
extinct, was almost too much for me. Faintly, but fer-
vently, did I breathe forth my thanksgivings to a merciful
Providence, and then, with the assistance of some of the
inhabitants, I bore the still unconscious form of my beloved
companion to a fisherman's hut, which was perched in a
fissure of the neighbouring rocks.

" Don't be afeared, sir," said the old fisherman who as-
sisted me in supporting Emily ; " don't be afeared. Her
cheek is a little pale or so ; but my ould ooman '11 soon
bring the colour into it again. Bless her ould heart, she's a
famous doctor ! But here we are," said he, giving a thun-
dering rattle against the door. " Betsy, Betsy, heave a-head,
ould woman ! — this is no night to keep flesh and blood
on the wrong side of the house."

The door was cautiously opened, and, shading her candle
with her hand from the rude blast, a tidily-dressed, respect-
able looking woman made her appearance, who gave a cry
of surprise and alarm when she saw the apparently lifeless
body of Emily. She began pouring out a whole string of
questions, which her husband quickly cut short with—

THE SEA STORM

VOL. ill. P. tee.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" Come, come, Bet, there' no time for backing and fill-
ing now. Get the poor thing stripped, ould ooman, and put
her into a warm bed as soon as ee can. There's a ship
ashore below there, and this ere lady corned ashore with
this ere gentleman."

" For Heaven's sake be quick, my good woman," said I;
' you shall be handsomely rewarded for your trouble."

" Reward, sir !" replied the woman; " neither Bill nor me
looks for reward for doing our duty. More's the luck,
there's a good fire in both ends of the house to-night ; bring
her in here, poor thing."

In half an hour, thanks to blankets, hot water, and
Schiedam, Emily was in a quiet and placid slumber ; and
the fisherman and I, after having fortified ourselves with
a glass of good Hollands, hastened again to the beach. The
storm was still raging in all its fury ; lights were flashing
along the shore, and parties of men were running up and
down — some in search of plunder, others with the more
benevolent wish to afford assistance to the shipwrecked
crew of the Indiaman. The beach was strewed with broken
spars, hen-coops, chests of tea, and ship timber ; and every
now and then, the fisherman's light flashed upon a dead
body, lying extended, partly on the sand and partly in the
•ivater. As we were hurrying along, I stumbled, and nearly
fell, over somethings oft, which I could not distinguish in
the darkness, the fisherman being some paces a-head of me
with his lantern. I stooped down, and found it was a
human body.

" Poor fellow !" muttered I — " he sleeps sound ; 'tis the
sleep of death." As I spoke, my hand touched the face,
which, to my great surprise, was still Avarm. "Ah, there
is life here still !" And of this I soon had startling con-
viction; for my finger was suddenly and sharply bitten, and,
at the same moment I saw a little, round, dim-looking
bundle rolling over and over with great rapidity along the
beach. I was startled at first ; but quickly recovered my-
self, and gave chase to the mysterious-looking object, call-
ing out to the fisherman to join me. We soon overtook
the object of our pursuit ; and, cold and wearied as we both
were, and surrounded by sights and sounds of horror, I
could not forbear laughing at the sight that met my eyes.
There, rolled up like a hedgehog, with his leather bottle
by his side, and a red night-cap fastened on with a pocket
'Handkerchief, his littleroundchubby face buried in his hands,
and his knees drawn up to his chin, lay the little doctor,
liis whole body trembling with fright. I flashed the light
across his face, but he kept his eyes obstinately shut, and
buried his face deeper in his hands.

" Doctor !" said I, shaking him.

" Oh, oh," shuddered he, " don't kill me — that's a good
fellow ! I'll give you my brandy-bottle if you won't." I
touched him in the ribs. " Oh ! I'm a dead man," groaned
he, recoiling from the touch ; " drowned like an ass at sea,
and now going to be stuck like a pig on shore ! Oh !"

•'« Doctor !"

"Never was one in my life ! — my name's Posset. Drenched
to the skin ! — cold — cold ! Don't kill me — that's a good
fellow. I'm so cold."

" Don't you know me, Doctor ?" said I, almost crying with
laughter ; " don't you know Wentworth ?"

" Eh ! What ?" returned he, gradually uncoiling himself,
till his little thick legs were stretched to their full length,
(shortnr.ftd, I should say,) and his sharp twinkling eyes
stared full up in my face. " So it is! Give me your hand,
my boy — who'd have thought it ? How did you escape ?
Devil takes care of his own, eh t"

" So it seems, Doctor," said 1, laughing ; " that accounts
satisfactorily for your appearance here."

" Ha, ha, ha ! have me there, eh, Wentworth ? Help me
to take the stopper out of the bottle — that's a good fellow."
*T<* raised, himself on l»is elbow turned his face to the

sky, and held deep communion with his pocket companion ;
but, happening to cast his eyes upon mine, he started nimbly
to his feet, and, edging dose to my side, muttered with great
trepidation" —

" Who's your friend, eh ? Not a wrecker, I hope ? Sad
fellows those— cut-throats, and all that."

Having set the little gentleman's fears at rest on that
score, we returned to the cottage, which was now crowded
with survivors from the wreck, some dreadfully bruised,
others only exhausted with cold and fatigue. "We heard
that several others had taken shelter in ^another cottage,
about half a mile distant, and that a messenger had been
dispatched to a neighbouring town for medical assistance.
It was found, on comparing notes, that only about fifty
people were saved out of the crew of one hundred and
twenty. Sad and silent were the greetings of the survivors ;
for the loud roaring of the wind, the rattling of the door
and casements, and the low, rumbling sound of the distant
breakers, recalled but too forcibly the horrors of the scenes
they had just witnessed, and the sad fate of their unfortun
ate shipmates. As soon as the little doctor was revived
by the heat, and by a dose of the fisherman's restorative,
he hastened to make himself useful in a professional way ;
and his little rosy cheeks and merry chuckling laugh had
the effect of soon dispelling the gloom which hung over the
party. In a short time, we heard, in the intervals of the
gale, the faint, distant sound of a horse's hoofs, galloping
along the beach.

"There comes the young doctor, I'll take my 'davy,"
said the fisherman. " Never know'd him let the grass grow
under his horse's feet in time of need — blessings on his kind
heart !" The door opened, and in walked the expected
visiter. He was quite a youth in appearance, but tall, and
of a most prepossessing exterior.

" I hope there has no serious accident happened, William."

" Serious enough, your Honour," said the fisherman.
"There's a fine ship stranded just below ; many of the poor
fellows on the beach are beyond the reach of your assist-
ance ; there is not so much as a broken bone here, however —
nothing but wet clothes and bruises. But there's a lady in the
other end of the house, Doctor — you had better go to her first."

We were just going to knock at the door of Emily's room,
when the fisherman's wife opened it, and, on seeing me,
exclaimed—

" Your wife has just wakened from a sound sleep, sir, and
looks quite fresh and life-like." I smiled at the good
woman's mistake, which I did not see any occasion to rectify;
but I followed the young doctor into the room. I saw in
an instant that Emily had heard the woman's address to me;
for as soon as her eye caught mine, she blushed deeply and
averted her face. I almost flattered myself I heard a gentle
sigh. The young doctor, in the meantime, approached the
bed, and was about respectfully to feel her pulse, when, ah
at once, to my great surprise, he exclaimed —

" Merciful heaven ! Emily, dear Emily !" And, without
the slighest ceremony, he printed kiss after kiss upon her
fair cheek. My first impulse was to spring forward to
chastise him for his insolence ; but I felt my limbs tremble
under me ; I staggered against the wall, hid my face in my
hands, and absolutely groaned with anguish of spirit. There
was an end to all my bright visions ; I had flattered myself
that the cup of happiness was just at my lips, and now it
seemed to be dashed from them for ever. I had saved
Emily only for the arms of a happy rival !

Such were the thoughts that flashed through my mind
with the rapidity of lightening ; and with them visions of
ropes, and razors, and pistols. Two words of Emily dis-
pelled them, and raised me again from the depths of despair
into the seventh heaven of hope and happiness. These
cabalistic words were — " Dear brother !" The young doctor
now turned round to me, and said, hesitatingly —

168

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" And this gentleman, Emily ? Pray introduce me to
him."

" Mr Wentworth, allow me to introduce to your notice
and friendship, my brother, Edward Walford."

" Wentworth !" said young Walford ; " there is surely
some mistake here, Emily — I thought the woman called
this gentleman your husband !"

" So she did, Edward," replied she, blushing ; " but it
was a mistake on her part, and not a surprising one. I am
more astonished at your ignorance of my affairs than at
hers. You cannot have received my two last letters from
the Cape."

She then informed him of the events which had taken
place since she left Madras ; spoke kindly and affection-
ately of her late husband, who, she said, had always behaved
like a tender and considerate father to her ; and expressed
the warmest gratitude to him for his liberal provision for
her future welfare. She hinted delicately, that, though she
grieved for his loss as that of a dear and valued friend, her
feelings towards him had been chiefly those of gratitude
and esteem. She gave a rapid and graphic sketch of the
voyage, and ended with an account of the immediately pre-
ceding scenes of its fatal termination. Her cheek grew
pale, and her voice trembled, as she detailed the horrors of
the wreck.

" Although I had thought myself perfectly resigned," she
said, " to what appeared to be my inevitable fate, yet,
when that awful sea tore me away from the deck, I felt as
if my last earthly hope was wrested from me ; that moment,
snatched as it were from the confines of a violent and awful
death, was crowded with the recollections of a lifetime,
which flashed, with lightning-like rapidity, across my
memory. I thought of all I had done and suffered, and
then of the extinction of my fond hopes of meeting and
benefiting those dearest to my heart. There was agony in
the thought — I screamed, and became unconscious. The
cold dashing of the sea, while it half drowned, revived me
from my fit. I was too faint and frightened to speak, but I
was aware that Mr Wentworth was beside me ; I felt that
I was saved, and I relapsed into unconsciousness. To thi
gentleman," she said, turning her tearful eyes towards me,
"am I indebted, under Heaven, for my escape from a
watery grave. Oh, Mr Wentworth ! how can I ever
adequately prove my gratitude to you ?"

" You owe me none," replied I. " The mere selfish
impulses of our nature prompt us to endeavour to save what
we value most. I thought I loved you ; but it was not tilJ
I saw you struggling in the waves that I knew how very
dear you were to my heart. Pardon my abruptness ; if you
think it presumption in a comparative stranger so soon to
talk of love, I will wait months, years — only speak one
word Emily — say, may I hope ?"

She was silent, but her eyes filled with tears, and she
looked beseechingly at her brother.

" I see how it is, Mr Wentworth," said the doctor, laugh-
ing : " my sister deputes me to act as her interpreter. Her
eyes say to you, as plain as they can speak, (though you do
not seem to understand their language,) ' You saved my
life — who has a better claim upon my hand and heart ?
Am I right, Emily ?" said he, putting her small fair hanc
into mine.

She made no reply, but gently returned the pressure o
my hand, and looked up in my face with such a sweet
smile that I could not resist the temptation to imprint the
first fond seal of love upon her glowing cheek.

" Come, Emily," said young Walford, " your broiner ha
given you to Mr Wentworth, and now your doctor must
take care of you for him. You are too weak yet to bear
more excitement ; we will leave you to your repose." He
then took my arm, and bidding Emily adieu, we went int
the other room, where we found the most exhausted of th

party stretched on the floor in various attitudes, giving
audible notice that their lungs had not been materially
injured by their late submersion ; while the shuddering
moans and convulsive starts of some of the number shewed
that fancy was busy within them, acting over again, the
dreadful scenes of the night.

When day had begun to break, the whole party hastened out
to the beach. Not a vestige remained of our unfortunate ship ;
the hull was completely broken xip, and the shore was strewed
for miles with portions of the wreck. We found Captain
Darby, Wildman, and the survivors who had taken refuge in
the other cottage, busily employed in the sad duty of collect-
ing the dead bodies of their less fortunate shipmates. Young
Walford and I had a long and interesting conversation
together, in the course of which he told me that his mother
and the rest of the family were living in the neighbouring
town, in which he was practising as surgeon. He was
obliged to return home immediately, he said, to attend to
his professional avocations ; and, leaving me to apologise to
his sister when she awoke, he promised either to come or
send for her as soon as possible. I returned to the cottage.
Emily was sleeping, and remained for three or four hours
in a sound slumber, from which she had only just awakened,
when a post-chaise drove up to the door, a handsome middle-
aged lady stepped out, and in a moment Emily was in the
arms of her mother. For some time, they embraced each
other in silence ; but their lips were moving, and the tears
were streaming down their cheeks.

" Dear, dear mother !" at last sobbed Emily.
" Blessings on my darling !" replied she, holding Ernily
from her, and then hugging her to her heart ; " let me look
again on thy sweet face, my child !" she continued, gazing
earnestly and affectionately at her, and then murmuring,
" Oh, if I had lost you, Emily !" she again burst into an
agony of tears. At last recollecting herself, she exclaimed.
" Edward has told me all — where is he — where is the
gallant man who saved your life ?"

" This is Mr Wentworth," said Emily.
Mrs Walford took my hand in both hers, and pressed it
to her heart, and, with a broken and trembling voice, she
exclaimed —

" The blessing of a widowed mother be upon you, sir.
You have saved my grey hairs from going down in sorrow
to the grave."

I was greatly affected by her warm expressions of grati-
tude, and by the almost maternal cordiality with which
she urged me to accompany them home. This invitation,
it may be readily supposed, I was not at all unwilling to
avail myself of ; and, as none of the party were encumbered
with baggage, nothing having been saved from the wreck,
we soon left the cottage, carrying with us the good wishes
and blessings of its inmates, whom Mrs Walford had most
liberally rewarded for their hospitality. Three months
afterwards, Emily Stacey became my wife ; and, as I saiq
before, sir, I owe the greatest blessing of my life to a
storm and its consequences."

The steam -boat, soon afterwards, entered the Mersey ;
and, when we parted on the quay at Liverpool, it was with
mutual regret, and with a promise to renew our acquaint-
ance as soon as possible. I have since had reason, like Mr
Wentworth, to bless a " storm and its consequences ;" for
the next greatest blessing to a good wife, is a good friend,
and such he has ever proved himself to be, since our
" stormy" meeting in the steam-boat.

WILSON'S

'tal, QfratrfttonavB, auto

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE MATCHMAKER OF SALFORD.

IT was Dean Swift, we think, that endeavoured to regulate
the actions of his old age by the experience and wisdom of
his youth — an attempt which may sound strangely in the
ears of grave philosophers, who think that there is no
wisdom in the world but what comes from the experience
of grave seniors ; but one, notwithstanding, which many grey-
headed sages might do well to imitate. The Dean com-
mitted to paper what he called maxims or truths to be
observed when he came to be old, and one of these was,
never to fancy that he could be the object of the affection of
a young woman. The remark had been dictated, doubtless,
by the pitiful exhibitions he had witnessed in his aged
friends, who had resigned themselves to the fond imagination
of a requited love ; and, under that delusion, played off all
those tricks which turn the grey hairs of wisdom into folly
and ridicule. We know not if the Dean had ever heard
our Scotch expression of " the auld daft ;" but that he had
seen the grey-headed passion in full operation, cannot be
doubted, and hence it was that he counselled his old age
by the wisdom and experience of youth, and set an example
which, as we will now shew, has not been at all times
followed.

Manchester remains, but where is the rich Miles
Cranstoun, who was once the envy of both the rich and
the poor, so much did his wealth exceed that of the richest ?
It is many a long day since his bones were deposited in
the churchyard of St Fillans ; and, as his son died far
from Manchester, and the second generation located them-
selves in Scotland, there remains not even a tombstone
in that great manufacturing town where the old man made
his wealth, to tell that there once lived a person of that
name, the richest individual in it : neither is the name
inscribed in any tablet of the memory of the existing
generation ; and even the town records mention him not,
for he was too much bent on making money, to allow any
part of his time to be devoted to the good of the public.
Yet, though he wrought thus assiduously to be forgotten, he
did not altogether succeed ; for, if his generosity was not
strong enough to be remembered in the second or third
generation, his weaknesses were strong enough to endure
for ages.

This extraordinary person left St Fillan's when a mere
boy, went to Manchester, where he went through all the
grades of runner, warehouseman, clerk, manager, partner,
and sole proprietor, and by dint of Scotch prudence,
or rather excessive cunning, amassed a large fortune. As
what we have to say of him respects entirely the latter
part of his life, when he became the victim of a strange
passion or whim which sometimes seizes old men, we do
not require to give more of his history than that he married
a person from St Fillan's, who bore him an only son, and
afterwards died ; so that the household of the rich old mer-
chant was composed solely of himself and his heir-apparent,
whose name, Mark, was bestowed on him after a forebear of
that appellation in St Fillan's.

By the time that Mark became thirty-two years of age, the

father was at least seventy-two. He then presented the

126. VOL III.

ippearance of a rich frequenter of Exchange. His money-
making spirit had not, as it often does, diminished an early
corpulency, which, accompanied with a -fine, fresh, ruddy
complexion, made him one of those comfortable sights so
delectable to the wishers of long life, as affording them a
dnd of guarantee, or at least expectation, of a prolonged
enjoyment of this transitory world. Such men are a species
of unconscious philanthropists. Every time they are seen
>y the aged, the middle-aged, and the young, they stir
their blood by the excitement of busy, calculating hope — a
Feeling which has more health in it than is to be found in a
ivhole pharmacopolium. But the old gentleman did not
communicate more than he felt, for he was just as full of
liealth, spirits, and hope, as the young striplings who count-
ed from his example a long series of coming years, not one
of which, perhaps, they might ever see.

On the other hand, young Mark was a thin, spare, tall,
;enteel figure, wanting both the flesh and the blood of his
father, but withal very handsome and good looking ; while
the inner man, though somewhat starved by the narrow,
money-making views and sentiments of the father, exhibited
great generosity, and a fine sense of honour — qualities which
procured for him the affection of all his acquaintances. He
was, in fact, both, externally and internally, the reverse of his
father, and on that account shared but a small portion of the
love or admiration of his parent, who, the older he grew,
became the more penurious, and complained that the mental
and bodily qualities of the son unfitted him for the race
of fortune in which he himself had already been so success-
rul. He forgot that two generations could not spend the
money he had already made, and that the son of a rich
'ather wants the motive to exertion which was the soul of
the former's success.

There was nothing that seemed to have the slightest
chance of coming in between the expectations of the heir
apparent and his possession of all his father's fortune. It
was now twenty years since Mrs Cranstoun died, during the
whole of which time the old gentleman devoted himself
with so much assiduity to the increase of his fortune, that
he never thought of taking another wife. During the first
ten years, Mark might have had something to fear, if lie
had had sense and selfishness to calculate ; but now, whea
threescore years and ten, and two to boot, had put the
seal upon the bald head of the celibate, there remained no
ground for even the fears of nervousness. Mark's splendid
apparency, which procured him many flatterers, and many
tacit offers of delicate, yet grasping hands, was, however,
doomed to a long continuance ; for, as the time came when,
in the course of nature, it might have been expected to
terminate, it was as vivacious as ever — a circumstance not
in the slightest degree regretted by the old merchant, who
thought that his increasing age, or the increasing expecta-
tions of a son, were no reasons for a decreasing hope or
vitality, any more than for a decay of flesh and colour— a
consequence which, he plainly saw and felt, did not, at least
in his case, result from it.

Nearly opposite to where Mr Cranstoun lived, (m the
suburb called Salford,) a widow lady, Mrs Baynes, with
her only daughter, Julia, an interesting and (so reckoned)
a very beautiful girl, resided in a self-contained house, left

170

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

to her by her husband, who had died some years before.
The two families had been for a considerable time
acquainted, and the two young members, by frequent
intercourse, and by the subtle manoeuvering of the mother,
who saw all the advantages of a match so full of hope and
expectation of wealth, became enamoured of each other.
The cunning mother had seen, at a very early period, the
spark, and had never allowed a moment to pass without
using all the pneumatic powers of praise and cajolery to
make it burn into a flame. Her success was as complete
as could be : young Cranstoun very soon declared a passion
for Julia — a declaration, next to that of her own husband
when he made the proposal to her, the most delightful she
had ever heard come from mortal lips. She saw in an
instant realized all the hopes she had entertained of her
daughter's becoming the wife of the richest heir-expectant
in Manchester, and, consequently, in a very few years at
least, the lady of an immense fortune, which many genera-
tions of Cranstouns and Baynes would not be able to dis-
sipate or spend.

This love affair and proposed match was kept, in the
meantime, a profound secret from the old man, whose
strange peculiarities required to be studied and calculated
before a declaration to him could be ventured upon. When
his son had endeavoured to draw from him his sentiments
upon the subject of marriage, he had uniformly maintained
such a studied reserve and even silence, that he utterly
defied all the young man's efforts ; and the latter was thus
left in the greatest doubt whether he was against marriage
altogether, or only entertained certain views respecting the
kind of wife, her family, education, or tocher. No refer-
ences were made in these attempts to Julia Baynes, or any
other lady ; but even the device of keeping them general,
did not succeed in drawing out the close old merchant, who
saw in an instant that his son had a wife in his eye,
though who she was he had not been able to discover, and,
of course, disdained to ask. He had not the most distant
suspicion that his son's choice was Julia Baynes, because
the efforts of the mother, while her art was in progress,
were rather directed to concealment, or indeed to leading
the old gentleman to a different belief, than to procuring his
favour to what was not yet ripe enough for even being
mentioned to the ear of her own trembling expectations.

Foiled in his attempt to get some insight into his father's
mind on this, to him, important subject, Mark hastened to
his intended mother-in-law, and told her that he feared he
would be taking a step in the dark, the consequences of
which might be ruinous to them all, if he were to propose
to him at once his intended marriage with Julia, without
knowing before hand whether he was for or against it.

" His peculiarities, Mrs Baynes," said he, " are known to
you and to all the people of Manchester. He thinks for
himself; and it is quite a sufficient reason for not according
with a view, or acting according to the wishes of another,
that these views and wishes do not originate in his own
mind. His determinations are so strong, that obstinacy
is too gentle a word for them ; for that implies some
attention to the subject of the determination, while he
seems to be unconscious — so completely does he eradicate,
by contempt, other men's sentiments from his mind — that
his own actions are adverse to the expressed hopes and
wishes of those who have often a right to entertain
them."

" I am aware of the delicacy of the point," said Mrs
Baynes. "Were you to presume to obey the dictates of
your heart, and act upon a spring which has not its coil in
his mind, you might forfeit his good opinion, and be cut off
with a shilling. That won't do, good Mark. / must take
the thing in hand : women are, after all, the only match-
makers— so much so, that I verily believe (though you lay
•jo much stress on putting the question, as you call it) that

every man is asked tacitly, before he says a word on the
subject. My Julia" (laughing) " is, indeed, one exception ;
and your love was so strong that I did not require to
interfere, in so far as you were concerned. But now, by
your authority, I will act in my natural vocation, and try if
I have not wit enough to get your father's consent to your
marriage."

" If you did not know him," said Mark, " I would say
you would fail, clever as you are."

" One look of a woman," said Mrs Baynes, " at the other
sex, accomplishes more in the way of acquiring a know-
ledge of them, than a day's study of a man."

" By ' the other sex,' you mean Englishmen," replied
Mark : " a Scotchman's eye is a blind, and his words back-
reading Hebrew. Twenty years' study have not yet enabled
me to know my father. I leave the matter in your hands."

Mrs Baynes set about her task with all the assiduity of
a woman engaged in her most natural duty, and all the
anxiety of a mother, who saw that her daughter's fortune,
and her own depended upon the issus of her endeavours.
She began by prevailing upon the old gentleman to come
more about her house — sending him a kind invitation to
tea — sitting with him tcte-d-tete — putting Julia up to all
manner of kindness and blandishments — praising her in his
presence with the tact of a mother who knows the female
characteristics that please a man — and, in general, by making
both herself and daughter the greatest favourites possible
with the old Scotchman. At first, Mr Cranstoun exhibited
some shyness and reluctance, and complained that her
invitations and kindness occupied too much of his time,
and stated that the duties of business prevented him from
enjoying so much as he wished the society of her and her
daughter ; but, in a short time, this reluctance began to wear
off; he came always when invited, and he even shewed the
extraordinary change of coming when he was not invited.
At all times, whether invited or not, he was made so welcome,
was so completely honeyed, by the soft words and kind looks
of the mother, and so charmed (that is, as became a man of
seventy-two) with the beauty and intelligence of the daugh-
ter, that he never went away without reluctance, and was
never long absent without a wish to be back again.

All these indications were, undoubtedly, favourable ; and
Mark saw with delight how effectually his intended wife
and mother-in-law were getting into his graces. Mrs
Baynes was getting proud of her expected victory ; and
Julia could not doubt that so excellent an old man as Mr
Cranstoun (when under the effect of the luxurious palpations
of Mrs Baynes) would agree to the union the instant it was
proposed to him. The young couple thought matters
already ripe for the direct attack of the mother, and pressed
her to begin her active operations. Mrs Baynes was, how-
ever, of a different opinion. Her conversations, hitherto, had
been too general, and too remote from marriage, to admit
of a change without a great deal more preparation ; but she
saw she was in a fair way for ultimate success. On the
occasion of the next visit, she intended to be left for some
time alone with him, and to begin some of the mere out-
works of her operations.

The opportunity was not long awanting, for Mr Cranstoun
had now become a frequent visiter ; but the quick eye of
the mother was now startled by a strange apparition. A
new wig graced the head of the old gentleman ; and a clear
shining pea-green new coat, fresh from the tailor's hands,
sat majestically on his portly person ; a light buff vest reflect-
ed from its bright surface a stream of light on his ruddy
and now greatly illuminated face ; and over the whole man
the spirit of reform had thrown an entire change. Nor was
the change confined to the outer man ; the inner had shared
the effects of the innovating or renovating principle ; a
strange and somewhat uncouth vivacity imparted to his
actions* looks, and words, a lightness and frivolity which,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

holding no terms but that of absolute contrast with the usua
manners of an old, stiff- limbed, tottering man, produced the
most grotesque appearance possible. It seemed as if, by
Borne metamorphosis, the spirit of a fop had taken up, by
force, its quarters in his mind, and assumed the reins o
government of both soul and body. The caustic, purse-
proud, and sometimes rude old merchant, was transformec
into a smiling, simpering manufacturer of compliments. His
supreme wish seemed to be to produce an impression — to
make himself agreeable and pleasant — to raise a laugh by
the powers of a bastard and forced wit — to attract attention
to himself, his dress, appearance, 'and speech ; and all his
efforts were accompanied by certain side-looks or glances
as if he were secretly, but confidently watching the effeci
of his better qualities and powers on the minds and feel-
ings of the two ladies.

At this extraordinary change, Mrs Baynes sat and starec
in amazement ; for the idea that the old man was in love
was the very last to rise in her mind, quick in the genera
case as she was to observe indications of a feeling in which
women are generally so much interested. At last, however
on comparing this extraordinary exhibition with what she
had before seen, heard, and read of, she became satisfied
that he was in love — hat what, in Scotland, is called the aula
daft, and what the English have no very proper name for,
had overtaken him at the period of life when he might have
been considered past danger, and that the object of his
passion was, in fact, herself. Being a stout, comely woman,
somewhat en bon point, fair and healthy, of about forty
years of age, she was perfectly capable of producing a warm
flame in a much younger heart than that of the old mer-
chant ; but, as the discovery broke in upon her, she could
not resist a smile at a conquest which, in so short time,
threatened to overcome all the schemes she had planned for
the happiness of the young couple. A few minutes thought,
however, satisfied her that the easiest and best mode of
gaining the old lover's consent to the union of their children,
was to bring about a union with him. To insure the honour
of the young people's draft, the shortest way was to take posses-
sion of the bank itself ; and this, according to all appearances,
could be no difficult matter, seeing that the keys were apparent-
ly held out to her hand. By hooking the old merchant, she
hooked his money-bags — the great obstacle that stood in
the way between her daughter and his son.

A new impulse was thus given to her actions ; and her
tactics required to be changed, to suit the change that had
taken place upon the enemy. She began to imitate him,
by dressing outrageously fine and showy ; and all the smiles
and ogles which she had for a long time kept lying in the
lumber room of her old affections, were brought out, fur-
bished, and set in motion with a force suited to the high
object to be attained. She made inquiries as to the best
mode of treating the auld daft, and found that no blandish-
ments, however strong, evidently seen through, or over-
acted, could come up to the wishes and expectations of the
victim of the extraordinary passion. Yet she determined
upon acting modestly, at least in the first instance — pro-
posing to herself to increase the dose of flattery and cajolery
as she saw the appetite getting a stronger and stronger
relish for the exquisite stimulants. She said nothing in the
meantime to Julia or Mark as to her own individual aims ;
and the former having no skill in the detection of the
symptoms of the passion of love in one of seventy-two,
while the latter being seldom present when his father
performed, there could be no risk of their discovering how
the affair actually stood. It was her intention to tell them
of their happiness along with her own ; and, in the mean-
time, she was determined to leave no effort unassayed to
effect her object. She had been often left alone by Julia,
with a view to the commencement of active proceedings ;
but she never had plucked up sufficient courage to make .

the attack, and it was left for the old lover himself to
declare his passion.

' It's a langtime, noo, since my Agnes died," said he, in
the Scotch accent — which he always retained — " and l'ic
rather astonished at mysel that I hae allowed my affections"
(a side glance) " to lie, as it were, barren, or, maybe,
rather like a rich ley field, for sic a length of time ; but my
case is just your ain case, Mrs Baynes ; wi' this difference,
that it's langer since my Agnes died than it is since your
Walter left you a widow."

" You are quite right, Mr Cranstoun," said Mrs Baynes.
who saw that he was coming to the very point itself, almost
without the ordinary circumlocutionary preparations. " I
believe I feel as you feel ; but it requires a time before a
person can fix their affections on an object. Your simile
of the ley field is, perhaps, more expressive than I can,
consistently with the delicacy" (blushing) " of our sex, ex-
plain ; but I can assure you, sir, that I am quite of opinion
that the longer one is beginning to love, he or she loves
the stronger."

" I meant nae mair than that," said he, " by my simile
o' the ley field, which, when ance broken up, affords twa
crops. My heart has lang lain ley, Mrs Baynes ;" (a side
glance;) " love's account in my ledger has been langbearin
interest;" (another glance ;) "but the sum total 's the greater
when Hymen casts it up. Ye ken what I mean — for, indeed,
ye expressed it yersel, maybe as weel according to your
fashion as I do according to mine. I'm glad we agree on
this important point. It's like a kind o' settlement o'
preliminaries, or rather a testin o' the qualities o' the
articles, before we come to state prices."

11 The most straightforward lover I ever met," muttered
Mrs Baynes. " Indeed, sir," continued she aloud, " I am
very straightforward in my sentiments ; and I believe you
will not this night utter a single opinion, however startling
to a lady's ear, in which I will not concur with you."

" I like your frankness, Mrs Baynes," said he ,; *' it gies
a man courage, which, on a certain subject," (winking,) " we
a' require. The best and gayest o' us" (looking down at
himself) " are apt to falter when we approach even the
preliminaries o' the delicate affair. I hae lang thocht o't ;
but to this hour I never could pull up resolution enough to
break the ice."

" But with an open, frank woman like me, Mr Cranstoun,
and one, moreover, whom you know admires you as the
most sensible and proper man in Salford, and a thousand
times better fitted for making a woman happy than the
young men, (and you are far" from being old,) whose love
consists of empty professions, you need have no fears
about breaking the ice. I'll catch you in my arms if you
give indications of sinking." (Looking at him tenderly, and
clapping him on the shoulder.) " Speak out, my dear Mr
Cranstoun !"

" Is it your opinion, then, Mrs Baynes," said the old
lover, with a trembling voice, " that I could make a sensible,
discreet woman happy — I mean puttin mere wealth oot o'
the question, for I hae nae notion o' buyin a wife. Think
o't a little before ye answer me — tak time," (rising mean-
while, and tottering along the floor, by way of shewing his
figure,) " just tak time."

" No one who has heard you and seen you, Mr Cranstoun,
requires much time to answer that question."

" Ay, but I never like a hasty answer," said he, as he
endeavoured to catch her eye, and, by walking with as firm
a step as possible, to impress her with a conviction that he
was hale and firm, as well as properly made. " I would
rather wish you to tak time, for I'll value the opinion just
in proportion as it is weel conned. I'm in nae hurry"—
(drawing himself up before her, to overcome the bent of
age) — " think weel on't."

' I can have no doubt on the point, my dear Mr Cran-

172

TALES OF THE

stoun/' said she, " provided the woman is a sensible one,
and able to appreciate all your merits. I think the woman
who is fortunate enough to get you will be the happiest
creature alive."

'f I am happy to hear ye say sae," replied he ; " and yet,
even wi' your opinion, sae candidly expressed, I hae a kind
o' a flutter! n fear to put my next question to ye."

" Why should you have any fear to put any question to
me, my dear sir r " said she, rising and taking his arm, on
which she leant lightly, for fear of hurting him. " You
know me now too well to feel any alarm as to what my
answer will be."

" You are an indulgent cratur," said he, as he lifted his
arm with the vain intention of supporting her ; " yet wi' a'
your indulgence"

<f Come now, my dear Mr Cranstoun," pressing his arm
fondly, and almost upsetting him ; " why, you are like a
blushing boy — what need of this ?"

<e True, there's nae occasion for't," said he, " seein ye
hae half answered me already — would ye hae ony objection,
then," (holding away his head,) " to — to"'

" What now, my dear Mr Cranstoun," turning her face
to catch his words, "what now?"

" To my askin Julia to be my wife," answered he, with
a great struggle.

A nervous shock convulsed her whole frame, and ex-
tending its effect to his arm, made him reel and almost fall
on the floor. She was silent, and found it impossible to
say a word ; yet she dared not withdraw her arm.

" What's the matter wi' ye, Mrs Baynes ?" inquired
the lover.

"You do not like a hasty answer," replied she, with
difficulty, taking refuge behind his own sentiment.

" Only sometimes," said he, impatiently. " At present I'm
in a different humour. A quick answer wad relieve me
noo. Activity is the soul o* business. What say ye, my
dear Mrs Baynes ?"

At this moment Julia entered the room, thinking that
her mother had had sufficient time to get out of him some
consent to her marriage with Mark. The interruption was
the most opportune in the world, and the still confused
and disappointed mother took advantage of it by with-
drawing her arm gently from that of the old lover, and
sitting down. Her disappointed expression of countenance
was read sorrowfully by Julia, who augured from it the
worst issue to her fond hopes ; while Mr Cranstoun,
occupied now in gazing upon the beautiful object of his
affections, did not perceive the unfavourable impression his
question had produced on the mother. He was relieved.
The question had been put ; the worst part of his suit wa
over ; and, becoming garrulous in his joy, he talked as fond
old lovers generally do, and thus covered the effects he hae
himself produced. He soon afterwards departed ; stating
as he winked and shook hands with Mrs Baynes, 'thai
another opportunity would occur for resuming their inter-
esting conversation.

This turn, so totally unexpectea, cnanged the entire aspec
of the matchmaker's views, and filled her with pain am
disappointment. Nothing except a veto upon the marriag
of the young couple could have been more inauspicious am
unfortunate. Julia, even if disengaged, had too much
spirit to sacrifice herself for money ; and the match wit!
the father, to the exclusion of the son, was entirely out o
the question. But how was it possible to give the old love
a denial without sacrificing, in an instant, all the hopes o
the son ? The former was possessed of too much conceit —
for the auld daft is, in this respect, truly a species of mad
ness — to allow himself to be cut out by his bareboned, white
faced son, as he sometimes called him, without retaliating
by cutting him, in return, out of his will. All parties, there
fore were placed, by this unexpected and unfortunate pro

posal, in a state of extreme danger ; and all the wits ot the
cunning matchmaker would clearly require to be put in
equisition to avert it. But she felt a consciousness of power
Tor what woman ever despaired in such a cause) that would
enable her to bring matters yet to a successful termination ;
and resolved, in the meantime, still to keep her secret and
plans from the young couple, whose forwardness might, in
some measure, disconcert them.

Her first step was to endeavour to take advantage of this
Freak of nature, before his mind was further fixed on her
daughter. She knew that an old man in his situation loves
rather in consequence of a radical change in his mind than
because he sees any particular woman whom he can love to
the exclusion of all others — a man under the power of
the auld daft bearing a considerable resemblance to a clock-
ing hen ; for as chalk, in the form of eggs, will entice her
to incubation, almost any woman, if she is very young, will
fire his old heart. She immediately wrote away for a depe nd-
ent niece called Fanny Maxton, who lived at some distance
from town, and who, to get a carriage, would not hesitate to
marry any one. She was a tall, swan-necked, showy
looking girl — a picture to look at, but, unfortunately, also
a picture to look into, for a near view discovered many
imperfections most imperfectly attempted to be covered
and concealed by rouge ; but which, of course, could
not be observed by Mr Cranstoun, without the aid of his
glasses ; and these he never carried with him when he
went a-courting, in case he might, by chance, expose his
short-sightedness. In using Miss Maxton as a tool for her
private ends, Mrs Baynes had no intention, unless she could
not otherwise effect her object, of urging the old gentleman
to absolute matrimony — a step inimical to the hopes of her
daughter : her object was to give his mind another bent ;
and, if that should fail, she had another resource, in which
the good-natured Fanny would also have to act a promi-
nent part ; but the puppet was to know no more of her
schemes than what was just necessary to enable her to play
her part.

When Mr Cranstoun called on the next occasion, Miss
Fanny Maxton was present, and Julia was indisposed.
The shewy figure of the niece was set in the best light,
right opposite to him, and so as to receive on her radiant
countenance the lack-lustre eyes, which, searching in vain
for Julia, and not finding her, might, for the mere sake of
rest, fix themselves where there was apparently so much
beauty. She was told, before he came, that he was an old
man worth more than a hundred thousand pounds ; and
nothing more was required to stimulate her energies to en.
gage his attention, and to stare him into love. The ogling
at first went on with considerable spirit ; and Mrs Baynes
took care occasionally to turn away her head, in order to
give the darts plenty of room for collateral as well as direct
play. If she could have had an opportunity of prompting
Fanny, she would have recommended to her to have opened
her battery upon him more gradually, and to have closed
up at intervals the port-holes, to give him time to reload,
and to increase his fervour and pluck ; but the truth was,
that the girl had not, for a long time, met with so enviable
a prize ; and the extreme anxiety she felt to hook him, pro-
duced, perhaps, an imprudent precipitation, in betaking
herself to her most spirited system of attack. The effect
produced upon the old lover was, however, wonderful
and highly auspicious. He stood his ground with great
spirit, and sometimes even went so far as to vindicate a
right to the last glance — a right which Fanny very imprud-
ently contested with him, except in a very few instances,
where Mrs Baynes, by claiming her attention, thus gave
the old stickler for the rights of his sex an occasional
victory, of which he was as proud as if he had taken the
heart of a beauty by storm.

The result of this interview seemed highly creditable to

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

173

the spirit of the principal actors, as well as to the art of
the female schemer herself. Several other interviews fol-
lowed, at which the same system was kept up, and many
very endearing things said by both parties. At the next
meeting, Mrs Baynes chose to see Mr Cranstoun by her-
self.

<e Julia is still a little indisposed," said she, after he had
seated himself at the tea-table, "and a young beau has
taken Miss Fanny to the theatre."

" Umph 1 what has a young beau," said he, in a dis-
appointed tone, "either of sense, solidity, or money, to mak
ony woman happy ? — but its Julia I want to speak aboot.
Hae ye pondered owre the question I put to ye that nicht
before the fair cratur took ill ? I hope ye didna surprise
her wi' the communication. A sudden declaration of that
kind sometimes completely overpowers the young heart,
and maks it beat quicker than the passage o' the bluid re-
quires. I fear I am the cause o' her illness — puir, sweet,
delightfu cratur !"

" I have not told her anything of the matter," said Mrs
Baynes, disappointed at the apparent issue of her trial of
Fanny ; " you have my interest, however ; but" (whispering
in his ear) " I fear you have been rather — I do not say so
absolutely — but I fear you have been somewhat late in your
application. Julia, in spite of my wish and will, entertains
a kind of incipient passion for a young man who very sel-
dom visits the house; and, what is still more wonderful, I
do not think her affection is returned."

" What like is he ?" said Mr Cranstoun, proudly ; " what
is he like ?" (Looking down at himself.) " Do I ken him ?"

" It would not be quite proper," replied the dame, " for
me to give you his name at present ; but there's a good
time coming."

" But ye may tell me what like he is," replied the other,
snappishly. «' Is he stout, portly, and dignified ?" (stretching
kis shrunk muscles ;) " has he solidity and sense ? has he
money ?"

" I doubt if he has any of them," replied the other. " I
am angry at Julia, who, between ourselves," (whispering,)
" is, notwithstanding of a little beauty, a little senseless and
indiscreet. I often wish she were like Fanny, who, though
she can go to the theatre with a young beau, keeps her
heart disengaged for a good offer, when it presents itself.
Is'nt she a splendid creature ? If she had been my daughter
in place of Julia, what a pleasure it would have afforded
me to see her receiving with delight the addresses of such a
man as you ! Did you notice how proud she was of your
attention ? Ah ! you rogues of men ! what a power you
exercise over the hearts of women !"

" And wha should hae that power if the lords o' the
creation didna possess it?" said he, with a chuckle of self-
satisfaction; " but" (returning to his vomit) "I am concerned
about Julia, wha I wished to mak happy. Can she no be
brought to see her ain interest and happiness as other folk
see them ? Has she nae power o' comparison aboot her ?"
(Eying himself.) '• Can she no distinguish atween ae man
and anither, eh?"

" Indeed, my good sir," said she, " I fear she does not
know a proper man, and she's very obstinate. What if I
cannot turn her affections ? You cannot want a wife —
the women will not want you. Would that I had had two
daughters, and that Fanny had been one of them ! What
do you think, my good sir, we shall do?"

" Do ! I'm astonished at you, Mrs Baynes," replied he,
somewhat hurt ; " what should you do but compare the
lovers, as becomes a sensible mither, anxious for the guid o'
her dochter ; set the qualities o' the twa men afore your
dochter's een, and force her to appreciate them according to
their value. Or, there's anither and a better plan : let us
meet, and shew oursels face to face afore her. Wha could
doubt her choice, unless she's a natural ?"

" That you may well say," replied the crafty dame ; " but
I might experience a great difficulty in getting you to-
gether."

" But there's anither plan," said he, speaking low into
her ear. " Could we no touch her jealousy a bit ? Suppose
you were to say that I was after Fanny, and that Fanny
was after me. That would rouse her ; that would shew
her the better man, and open her een to her real happiness
What say ye, Mrs Baynes ?"

" It might do very well," replied she, taken by surprist
by this new turn ; but, instantly seizing her advantage — " i(
might do very well if you were really after Fanny, but ]
do not like to tell a falsehood. If you were to begin to
make love to Fanny, I might inform Julia of it afterwards.
What say you to that ?"

" I would hae nae great objections," said he, " if I knew
hoo far I could safely venture in interesting the feelings
and gaining the affections o' Miss Maxton — that is, I mean
without, maybe, breakin her heart, in the event o' my no
following up my suit wi' marriage. I hae some conscience
about me, Mrs Baynes, and hae nae wish to hae a woman's
death on my head. I hate a gay deceiver as I do a dis-
honest merchant."

" Indeed, Mr Cranstoun," said she, restraining a smile,
" I fear you could not proceed far with so highly suscept-
ible a girl as Miss Maxton, without producing that very
effect you so properly dread. How few men are like you !
A broken heart is a victory to many of your sex ; and I am
delighted to hear you say that you purposely refrain from
the cruel achievement."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance o{
Fanny, who had come home from the theatre sick. She
sat down beside them, very pale. The lover lost no time in
applying the necessary stimulants. She recovered ; and Mrs
Baynes whispered in his ear, that men have a strange power
in producing sickness as well as in allaying it. A chuckle
was the reply to this sweet morceau ; and Mrs Baynes was
not yet without hopes that she might get him entangled
with the willing Fanny.

Some more interviews satisfied the matchmaker that she
would not be able to succeed in detaching Mr Cranstoun's
affections from her daughter, so long as he cherished the
wish to have a trial of qualities with his rival. Pride
seemed to have entered the lists as Love's colleague. He
repeatedly again urged upon her the necessity of putting an
end to the rivalship by the speedy measure he had suggest-
ed, and harped upon the expediency of going at least a
safe length with Miss Fanny, to stimulate the feeling of
rivalry in Julia. Foiled in this, her second scheme of
getting his affections fixed on Miss Maxton, and also hei
third project of getting him to court her, (as a mode of
getting at Julia,) and to commit himself so far that he
could not honourably recede, she behoved to have recourse
to another, and her quick fancy was not slow in suggesting
what it should be. The fond lover was becoming every
day more urgent, and his visits were now more frequent.
At their next meeting he found another opportunity for
resuming the old topic.

" I almost think, Mrs Baynes," he said, " that ye dinna
wish Julia happy. Ye hae lost a fine opportunity o' workin
on her feelings, sae lang as she was in a sickly condition ;
for sickness, and tenderness, and love, are a' connected by
ae heart-string. But naething can be dune till this lover
is oot o' the way. Can ye no tell me yet wha he is ? Can
ye no let me meet him in presence o' the fair judge ?"

A woman's wit," she replied, " is worth the judgment
of a dozen of men in these matters. I have made a
curious discovery since you were here last. Who do you
think Fanny's beau at the theatre was ?"

" I dinna ken ; but I hope it may hae been Julia's lover,"
said the arch Scotchman.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" You are right, Mr Cranstoun," said she ; " a right good
guess. Julia discovered the whole affair herself, by ex-
hibiting her jealousy when she came to know that Fanny
had been so signally preferred ; but a greater wonder still
is the beau himself. Who think ye ? Not the young man
I mentioned to you. I am satisfied she never loved him,
but merely used him as a kind of decoy-duck to cheat me,
who she suspected was favourable to your claims, because
her real lover, that is the man she loves, (for he loves Fanny,)
and you could not possibly be rivals."

" What's this, what's this, Mrs Baynes ?" said he. " I
would like to see the man I wadna compete wi' for a
woman's favour. Wha can this wonderfu man be ?"

" What would you think of Mr Mark Cranstoun ?" said
she, whispering in his ear.

" Whew !" whistled the old lover. " White-gilled, pithless
cratur, would he think o' competin wi' his father in ony
affair either o' love or merchandise ?"

" Have I not told you, Mr Cranstoun," said she, " that
the young man does not seem to fancy Julia, but rather
prefers the more showy Fanny Maxton ?"

" Ha ! I kenned he wadna dare to cross my path," said
the father. " If he did, he wad hae little to count at the
credit o' his name in my will. A shillin, madam — just ae
shillin — wad be his fortune."

" Mercy on us/' muttered the dame to herself, " we are
on dangerous ground. But is it not a mercy," she said
aloud, " that he has no intention to compete with his father
in such a delicate affair ?"

" He has dune mischief aneugh, madam," said he, " in
interestin the dear cratur Julia's feelings in his favour.
Her choice, between ourselves," (speaking low and winking,)

is naething in his favour. Mark's but a feckless compo-
sition o' lang banes and lank muscles — the elements, in thae
degenerate days, o* gentility ; and, besides, what has he to
keep a wife on ? Absolutely naething, but what he gets frae
that very father she wad reject on his account. Extra-
ordinary infatuation ! But something maun be dune to
purify her heart frae this foolish attachment."

" That will not be a difficult matter, I should think,"
replied the dame. " My puir wits, I think, are equal to
that task."

"How would you manage it, my dear Mrs Baynes?"
eaid the lover, anxiously."

" Get Mark to marry Miss Fanny Maxton," said she,
" and the battle's won."

" I question if that's sae easy an affair as ye think it,
ma'am," said Mr Cranstoun, pulling himself up conceitedly,

when I can count absolutely upon there bem nae obstacle
to that perfect union o' hearts that befit true love."

These last words were uttered as he was struggling with
old age to rise and depart. He succeeded ; and, getting to
the door in the slipshod way of aged individuals, he, still
under the influence of the tender sentiment, put his hand
to his mouth, and, throwing a kiss to the mother, bade her
give it to Julia for his sake, and departed.

So far this last scheme had succeeded, and the performer
expected to bring it to a successful termination ; though
sometimes, when she thought of the strange individual she
had to work upon — the most cunning and hardest man in
Manchester — she could scarcely make herself believe that a
woman could match and circumvent one who was more
than a match for all others. But she forgot, when she gave
way to these fears, that she held in her hands a power —
that of administering to the "auld daft" — before which all
the perversities of man's nature become as smooth as oil — •
the giant becomes a child, the miser a spendthrift, and the
confirmed celibate as uxorious as Solomon. Meanwhile,
the young people had become all impatience. They could
neither understand her mother nor his father, and the match
maker was not inclined yet to divulge to them her schemes ;
while, in regard to poor Fanny, who had a part to play, and
yet could not tell from what springs she was moved, nor for
what object she was made to perform so many manoeuvres,
she was left to speculate on all these mysteries as her
imagination might supply the necessary materials.

Her next step was to call all parties to work at the same
time, and to make them go through their evolutions, so as
to contribute to the success of her plan, without being in
any respect privy to her design. Her abilities were even
able for this great stretch of her power. A tea party was
regularly made up, and the performers were to act thus : —
Miss Fanny, whose game was the old one, got a hint from
her aunt that her object would be best served by rousing
his jealousy — a matter of easy accomplishment, as she had
only to devote her attentions and direct her fires against
the son ; Julia, again, was primed with the softest looks and
the blandest words for her intended father-in-law, whose
good wishes she was to cultivate with all the perseverance
and assiduity of woman ; while Mark was recommended to
keep his father still in the dark, by paying attention to
Fanny, and leaving Julia to insinuate herself into the
favour of the crusty old gentleman, who was yet very far
frombeingina positionfit for the subject being even broached.
The old lover himself, again, was recommended to watch

and looking into the mirror.

Mrs Baynes was at fault. What was the meaning of
this manoeuvre ? She could not guess, but she could inquire.

" Why so, sir ?" said she.

" If I can judge frae her ee," said he, smirking with
self-complacency, "she is already struck in anither quarter."
(Winking.) " Sae lang as she thinks she has a grip o' the
father, she'll never look at the son. The wench has
comparison in her."

"True, very true — I forgot that," said Mrs Baynes.
*' But that difficulty may be got over ; I can say that you
are engaged for Julia."

" Hey ! hey ! and set them a-fechtin about me," cried he,
chuckling over his supposed power.

"Leave that to me," said the dame ; " 1 wul undertake
to manage the affair between Fanny and Mark, provided
you give me authority to act for you in the negotiation."

" I gie you full power, authority, and commission," said
Mr Cranstoun, "to negociate, adjust, and settle the affair as
you think proper. He's very welcome to Fanny, if I can
secure Julia. I canna marry baith the dear craturs, and it's no
]ost what a friend gets, as theysay in our country. Do your
best. I am deein to get a clutch o' the sweet Julia — that is.

Fanny and Mark, and notice the state of their hearts, while
the conduct of Julia would satisfy him that the mother's
exertions in his favour were not made in vain. ^ Acting
under these hints and instructions, the various individuals
of the drama went through their parts as correctly and
successfully as if they had been let into the secret, and had
seen vividly the object their actings were intended to attain.
The old lover went home satisfied of three things : first, that
his son and Fanny would make a match of it ; secondly,
that he and Julia would attain that happiness to which
they were so signally suited ; and, thirdly, that he was in-
debted to Mrs Baynes for all his success.

Next day Mrs Baynes, in her character of commissioner,
waited upon Mr Cranstoun, at his own house, to share the
exultation of the success of her actings, and to get the
remaining portions of her plan pushed forward with all speed.
She was received with great grace and favour ; a chair was
placed for her by the trembling hands of the old gentleman ;
wine of various kinds, as old as herself, was placed before
her ; and every attention paid to her who held in her handa
the key to his supremest happiness.

" I see now," said he, drawing his chair near her, " the
great merit o' your proceedings in my behalf. Julia wa8
absolutely charming last night ; sae kind, sae condescendin,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

176

sae lovin. Did I no tell ye to bring the twa men thegither
face to face ? I declare she scarcely ever looked at Mark. I
engaged a' her attention, was blessed wi' a' her smiles, and
wafted to heaven on the wings o' her undivided luve."

" I confess I myself was somewhat surprised at the
sudden change," said she. " I thought at one time she was
playing you off against Mark, with a view to rouse his
jealousy, and detach him from Fanny ; but, after all the
attention I could bestow on her looks and actions, I became
pretty well satisfied that you were, at least last night, her
choice."

" Ha ! ha ! playin me off against Mark — very guid, Mrs
Baynes," cried the old lover ; " use a lion to hunt a dor-
mouse ; very guid ; but I see ye like a joke, especially ane
that lies on the surface and maks ane laugh without the
trouble o' thinkin ; yet I maun confess I didna think Julia
wact hae let Mark aff sae easily. But Fanny's the queen.
I'faith she kept at him ; but think ye she wasna playin
Mark aff against me ? Ye're a clever woman, Mrs Baynes,
but ye dinna see sae far into a millstane 's I do."

" I would not doubt but that she was trying that scheme,"
said the dame, " but she soon saw that you were too firmly
caught by Julia, to be affected by that swivel gun. She
will be quite contented with Mark. I had a conversation
with both him and her this morning. They seem quite
devoted to each other, so that my part is easily performed ;
but there remains something to be done by you, over which
I have no control. To get- quit of Mark as an obstacle, is,
I assure you, of the greatest importance ; and deserves some
sacrifice on your part. He says he cannot keep a wife."

" That's true aneugh," replied Mr Cranstoun. "The
callant has nae business talents, sufficient to enable him
to do business sucessfully on his ain account."

" But, under your protecting wing, Mr Cranstoun, he
might do much. He is your only son."

" Ay, at present, Mrs Baynes," said he, with a broken,
hysterical kind of laugh. Tak alang wi' ye that qualification,
if you please, madam."

" Well, well," replied she — " I certainly wish the old stock
of the Baynes to be kept up ; but a person of your great
fortune may easily provide well for Mark, without interfering
with the interests of the children of your second marriage."

" I might gie him a share o' the business in the mean-
time," said he. " A ten years' contract wad expire before
ony o' the bairns o' this second marriage cam to need
muckle mair than education ; and I might renew it for some
years langer, until my second son was fit to receive a share
also. But I wadna like to grant Mark this favour as in
consideration of his marriage. I want to gie nae absolute
unqualified countenance to his choice o' a wife, because he
may come to repent o' his act, when he sees that I hae been
blessed wi a better, and maybe say that I bought him aff
as a rival, wi' the price o' the share o' the business I
j'ntend to bestow on him.

" It is not in any degree necessary," said the dame,
delighted with her success, "that you should say anything
at present to Mark about his marriage. He has told me
privately, that all he wants to make him happy, is just this
very partnership that you intend to bestow upon him.
Give it to him instantly, as a mere act of paternal love ;
the marriage will follow, I know, as a matter of course, and
you need not be accessory to it in any way, beyond giving
your consent, as every father is asked to do."

" It shall be dune, it maun be dune, Mrs Baynes," said he.
"Mark will get a share immediately — even this very day I
will ask Mr Coventry to draw out a scroll o' the contract o'
copartnership. They say in our country i' the north, that
ae marriage begets anither, and there's some curious secret
«bont the bride's cake. If Fanny gaes aff in style, Julia
winna remain lang ahinther ; for, beggin your pardon, Mrs
Ravnes, women are just like race-horses or gime cocks, set

the ane aff or the ither a-fechtin and the rest are sure to follow
the example. The virtue o' Fanny's bride's cake will sune
work its effects on me and the gentle Julia."

" All will go well," said the dame, " after the partnership
is fixed. There will be no keeping Julia out of your arms
when she is stimulated by the example of Fanny."

" And wha wad dare try to keep her oot o' my arms,
madam ?" said he. " By my faith, the intruder wad sune
feel the force o' them. Tak a glass o' wine, Mrs Baynes"—
(helping her with a shaking nervous hand) — " ay, he wad
sune feel the force o' them. Ye'll be wantin a guid jointure
for Julia, I warrant ? Let alane the mither for looking to
what comes after, while the happy bride and bridegroom are
occupied about the present."

$" That can be spoken of again, Mr Cranstoun," said she,
wishing to escape from details.

"It will be ample, ma'am," said he — "it will be ample; ana
the mair sae that the dear cratur doesna marry me for my
siller. A wife's real love should, besides being suitably re-
turned, be well repaid by a guid settlement. It's a' we can
gie the puir craturs after we are dead, and they gie us a' they
hae when they are livin."

" Do not speak of death," said Mrs Baynes, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes.

" Merely eventually, ma'am — merely eventually," said he.

" Dinna greet for me, my dear Mrs Baynes. I hae plenty
o' time yet to mak your dochter happy. I could greet, too,
but it is for the happiness o' our honey-moon. Ha ! Mrs
Baynes," (rubbing his palsied hands,) " ye canna deny me the
sympathy o' your strongest feelings, when ye look back to
that awfu period o' your ain life. Hoo lang a time do ye
think we should let pass between Mark's marriage and my
ain — between the wanin o' his mune and the risin o' mine ?

"Julia must be consulted on that point, I fancy," replied she.

" It will be short aneugh, then — short aneugh, ha — ha — •
ha," cried he, in the highest excitement — then singing, in
a voice cracked with age —

" I saw the new moon late yestreen,

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ;
And there's nae fear, my mistress dear,
That we will come to harm.

Mark's moon winna hae waned far when mine will be
shinin as bright as molten silver."

" A happy bridegroom makes a happy marriage," said
the dame, as she stared in amazement at this highest flight
of the auld daft.

Mr Cranstoun again pressed her to take wine, and, as
she was rising to depart, assured her that Mark's contract
of copartnership would be signed on the next day. The
dame, well pleased with the result of her negociation,
hastened home, where she met Mr Mark Cranstoun, to
whom she communicated the intelligence, that, on the
morrow, he was to become a partner in his father's lucrative
business.

" Then he has consented to our union !" cried the young1
man and Julia at the same moment.

" You are both of you too quick," replied the mother.
" I give you this piece of pleasant intelligence, and you
immediately cry for more. I see I must exact a promise
from you, Mr Slark."

" What is that ?" inquired he.

" That you will say nothing to your father," said she, " of
your love for Julia, or your intention of marriage, until I
give you liberty and instructions."

"What!" cried the youth, "may I not, at the time of
signing the contract of copartnership, venture a single hint
at the object we have in view, in entering into the tran-
saction ?"

" Not one word, or the whole affair is spoiled," said the
mother. " Do you not observe the delicacy of your kind
father ? He wishes to keep the two contracts, that of co-
partnership and marriage, separate, as well as the subjects

176

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

of them, that his generosity in making you a partner may
be the greater in proportion to there being no demand ior
it. All you have to do, is to sign your name, and thank
your father for his kindness."

" I will comply," said the youth.

" What are the profits of the business ?" inquired the
mother.

" Six thousand a-ycar, one with another/' replied the
youth.

' ' And you are to have a half of that ?" cried Julia,
exultingly.

" For ten years certain, at least," said the mother.

" The period of the duration of the contract, I presume ?"
said Mark.

" Yes," replied the mother ; " and by that time your
father will be well on for eighty-three, and then you will
put in for the stock, I fancy.

" Ah, mother !" said Julia, " the old gentleman knows of
our marriage just as well as you do. Don't he now ?"

" I cannot answer that question, Julia," replied she,
trying to suppress a smile, as she contrasted Julia's manner
^with the singing of the old lover.

Mark went away delighted with the intelligence he had
received. The old gentleman kept his word. The contract
of copartnery was entered into, and it was soon known, over
all Manchester, that young Cranstoun had been assumed as
a partner in his father's lucrative business.

This affair being settled, Mrs Baynes had effected the
great object of her clever scheming, because the contract
being irrevocable, she had insured, for ten years, three thou-
sand a-year for her daughter and Mr Mark Cranstoun,
which the spite of the old lover, when he came to know the
real truth, could not take from the happy pair. But
there was one thing she had yet to achieve, and that was, to
save herself and Mr Mark Cranstoun from the vengeance
of the father, by laying the whole blame of the rapid
change that was about to be communicated to him on the
back of her daughter. Her object for this was clear, be-
cause she would, in this way, prevent the rich father from
disinheriting his son, and save herself from an imputation
of duplicity and artifice. She made preparations, there-
fore, for an awful meeting with the old lover, at which
she would require the aid of a lugubrious face and a sea
of crocodile's tears ; but as she dressed herself for the occa-
sion, she often burst out into a laugh at the triumph of
the artifice and management of a woman over the most
subtle fox of his day. Having rung the bell, she was ad-
mitted and received with great kindness.

" Ye see I hae been as guid as my word," said he, as
she entered. " Mark may marry now when he pleases,
and I fancy the road is clear for my takin immediate pos-
session o' Julia. I was thinkin o' fixin the day (wi' her
consent, of course) this evenin. I see naething to prevent
the marriages being on the same day. But what maks ye
look so sorrowfu, Mrs Baynes, on sae joyfu an occasion ?"

The dame increased the lugubrious expression, and wiped
her eyes, pretending to be unable to utter a syllable.

" Ha ! I see it, I see it !" cried he. " When the point
has come to the point, ye're sorrow to see Julia gettin a
husband, and you (still so young) cut oot by your daughter,
as I thought I was to be by my son."

" That's not the cause of my sorrow, Mr Cranstoun,"
blubbered out the knowing dame.

" Then it's because ye're afraid to trust your daughter in
my keepin, is it ?" rejoined he. " But there's nae occasion
for that, madam. I'll use her kindly, tenderly, and lovingly.
I never was a rough lover — gentleness is the very soul o'
the tender passion — and wharever there is roisterin, rantin,
and roarin, there's some ground for suspicion that the
heart's no athegither sure o' its ain affection. I need say
oae mair, Mrs Baynes, than that your daughter Julia will

| lie as saft in my bosom as on a bed o' bloomin roses, and,
dootless, far mair pleasantly."

" It is not a fear of your being rough with Julia," said
Mrs Baynes, still wiping her eyes, " that is the cause of my
weeping."

" What is it, then ?" inquired he ; " speak out, my dear
mither-in-law ; for I love to anticipate my happiness by
addressin you in that friendly way — speak, guid-mither,
speak.

" Oh, sir," cried she, " I can scarcely speak with shame and
vexation. Alas, that I should have lived to see this day !
Would you believe it, sir ? All the attentions bestowed by Mr
Mark Cranstoun upon poor Fanny Maxton, turn out now to
have been mere by-play, to excite the love and jealousy of
Julia, who now declares she will marry no one else but
him ; and all that little minx's conduct towards you, my
good sir, was intended merely as similar by-play, to excite
the love of Mark, who says he will marry no one else but
her. All my schemes are frustrated, my hopes disappointed,
and my pride of management laid in the dust." (Weeping.)
" How can I look you in the face, my good sir, after I have
thus unconsciously led you astray ? Unhappy hour, when
I first engaged in this affair! — but I was naturally anxious for
the welfare of my daughter, whom I wished married to a
man of substance, solidity, and intelligence. Thus it is, we
bring up children to deceive us. Where is faith and con-
fidence to be found, if the very children of our bodies prove
false to us ?"

"Does Julia Baynes prefer Mark Cranstoun to his
father, and does Mark Cranstoun prefer Julia Baynes to
Fanny Maxton?" cried the old lover, in an incredulous
tone and falling back on the couch. The thing's impos-
sible, ma'am ! I will never believe it till I have her own
word for it."

" You may have that too soon," said the mother, still
weeping ; " but there is one thing I wish to impress upon
your mind, and that is, that the young man is not to blame.
I have purposely concealed from him your affection for
Julia, so that he does not to this hour know that he has
been competing with you."

The old gentleman took his hat and staff and accom-
panied Mrs Baynes to her house. He put the question to
Julia, whether she did not love him preferably to his son ;
and received for answer, that she would ever respect him
as her father-in-law, but that her love had been long since
bestowed on Mr Mark Cranstoun, who had declared that he
intended to many her. The disappointed man left the
house in great sorrow, vowing wrath against the whole
sex, whom he intended to renounce for ever. Some time
afterwards, his son appeared before him, and told him that
he intended to wed Julia Baynes, whom he had loved for
a long period of time.

" If I had known that you were to marry sic a jilt," re-
plied the father, in great fury, " you wad never hae been
my partner ; but I fancy things hae gane owre far for a return.
The young couple were married, and lived splendidly upon
the half share of the profits of the business. The old
gentleman was never altogether reconciled to Mrs Cranstoun,
but he relented considerably, and latterly left them all his
fortune. The moral of our story lies in aprico — When old
age follows the practices, adopts the manners, and competes
for the honours and pleasures of youth, it must lay its
account with meeting defeat, discomfiture, and ridicule, as
the reward of its folly.

WILSON'S

l, STrairittonari), «n&

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE EARLY DAYS OF A FRIEND OF THE COVENANT.

1 WAS born in the upper district and amidst the mountains
)f Dumfriesshire. My father, who died ere I had attained
my second birthday, had seen better times ; but, having en-
gaged in mercantile speculations, had been overreached
or unfortunate, or both, and, during the latter years of his
life, had carried a gun, kept an amazing pointer bitch, ( of
which my mother used to discourse largely,) and had ulti-
mately married,, in a fit of despondency. My mother, to whom
he had long been affianced, was nearly connected with the
Lairds of Clauchry, of which relationship she was vain ; and
in all her trials, of which she had no ordinary share, she still
retained somewhat of the feelings, as well as the appearance,
of a gentlewoman. I remember, for example, a pair of high-
heeled red Morocco shoes, overhung by the ample drapery
of a quilted silk gown, in which habiliments she appeared
on great occasions. Soon after my father's decease, my
mother found it convenient and advisable to remove from
the neighbourhood of the Clauchry to a cottage, or cottier as
it was called, on her brother's farm, in the upper division of
the parish of Closeburn.

Few situations could be better fitted for the purpose
of a quiet and sequestered retreat. The scene is now
as vividly before me as it was on that day when I last
saw it, and felt that, in all probability, I viewed it for
the last time. A snug kail-yard, surrounded by a full-
grown bushy hedge of bourtree, saugh, and thorn, lay
along the border of a small mountain stream, and hard by
a thatched cottage, with a peat-stack at the one end and
a small byre at the other. All this was nestled as it were
in the bosom of mountains, which, to the north and the east in
particular, presented a defence against all winds, and an
outline of bold grandeur exceedingly impressive. The
south and the west were more open — consequently the mid-day
and afternoon sun reposed, with delightful and unobstructed
radiance, on the green border of the stream, and the flowery
foliage of the brae. And when the evening was calm, and
the season suitable, the blue smoke winded upwards, and the
birds sang delightfully amidst hazel, and oak, and birch, with
a profusion of which the eastern bank was covered. It was
here that I spent my early days ; and it was in this scene of
mountain solitude, with no immediate associate but my mother,
and for a few years of my existence my grandmother, that
my " feelings and fortunes were formed and shaped out."

To be brought up amidst mountain scenery, apart and
afar from the busy or polluted haunts of man \ to place one's
little, bare foot, with its first movement^ on the greensward,
the brown heath, or in the pure stream ; to live in the retired
glen, a perceptible part of all that lives and enjoys ; to feel
the bracing air of freedom in every breeze ; to be possessed of
elbow room from ridge to summit, from bank to brae — this is,
indeed, the most delightful of all infant schools, and, above
all, prepares the young and infant mind for enlarged concep-
tion and resolute daring.

« To sit on rocks ; to muse o'er flood and fell ;

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or seldom been ;

127. VOL. TTI.

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean :

This is not solitude — 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's God, and see his works unrolled."

Here, indeed, are the things that own not the dominion
of man ! The everlasting hills, in their outlines of rock and
heath ; the floods that leap in freedom, or rush in defiance
from steep to steep, from gullet to pool, and from pool
to plain; the very tempest that overpowers ; and heaven,
through which the fowls of air sail with supreme and
unchallenged dominion : all these inspire the young heart
with independence and self-reliance. True it is that the
child, and even the boy, reflects not at all on the advantages
of his situation — and this is the very reason that his whole
imagination and heart are under their influence. He that
is ever arresting and analyzing the current of his thoughts,
will seldom think correctly ; and he who examines with a
microscopic eye the sources of beauty and sublimity, will
seldom feel the full force and sway of such impressions.
Early and lasting friendships are the fruit of accident,
rather than of calculation — of feeling, rather than of reflection ;
and the circumstances of scenery and habit, which modify
the child, and give a bent, a bias, and a character to the
after-life, pass all unestimated in regard to such tendency
at the time. The bulrush is not less unconscious of the marsh
which modifies its growth, or the wall-flower of the decay to
which it clings, and by which alone its nature and growth
would be most advantageously marked and perfected, than
is the mountain child of that moral as well as physical devel-
opement, which such peculiar circumstances are calculated
to effect. If, through all the vicissitudes and trials of my
past life, I have ever retained a spirit of independence, a
spirit which has not, as the sequel (which I may yet give)
will evince, proved at all times advantageous to my worldly
advancement — if such has been the case, I owe it, in a
great measure, to the impression which the home of my
youth was calculated to make.

My mother had originally received a better education
than in those days was customary with individuals of her
class ; and, in addition to this advantage, she had long acted
as housekeeper to an unmarried brother, the minister of a
parish in Galloway. In this situation, she had access to a
large and well-chosen library ; and at leisure intervals had
improved the opportunity thus presented. She was quite
familiar with Young, and Pope, and Dryden, as well as
with Tate's translation of Ovid's epistles. These latter, in
particular, she used to repeat to me during the winter even-
ings, with a tone of plaintiveness, which I felt at the time,
and the impression of which can never be obliterated.
From these early associations and impressions, I am enabled
to deduce a taste for poetry, which, while it has served to
beguile many an otherwise unsupportable sorrow, has largely
contributed to the actual enjoyments of life. There are,
indeed, moments of sadness and of joy, to which poetry can
bring neither alleviation nor zest ; but these, when compared
with the more softened shadings, are but rare ; and when
the intensity of grief or of delight have yielded, or are in
the act of yielding, to time or reflection — it is then, »n the

178

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

gloaming or the twilight, as darkness passes into light, o
light into darkness, that the soothing and softening notes o
poesy come over the soul like the blessed south.

In religion, or rather in politics — in as far, at least, as the
are interwoven with and inseparable from the Presbyteriar
faith — my mother was a stanch Covenanter. Nor was i
at all surprising that one whose forefathers had suffered s
severely in defence of the Covenant, and in opposition t
oppression, should imbibe their sentiments. Her materna
grandfather had suffered at the Gallowlee ; and her grand
mother, who refused to give information toClavers respecting
the retreat of her husband, had her new-born babe pluckec
from her breast, dashed upon the floor, and the very bed, fron
which, to rescue her babe, she had sprung, pierced and per
forated in a thousand places by the swords of the ruffians
Whilst this tragedy was enacting within doors, and in what
in these simple times, was denominated the chaumer, he
eldest son, a boy of about twelve years of age, was arrested
and because he would not, or in all probability could not
disclose his father's retreat, he was blindfolded, tied to a
tree, and taught to expect that every ball which he hean
whizzing past his ear was aimed at his head. The boy
was left bound ; and, upon his being released by a menial
it was discovered that his reason had fled — and for ever
He died a few years afterwards, being known in the
neighbourhood by the name of the Martyred Innocent
I have often looked at the bloody stone, (for such stains are
well known to be like those upon Lady Macbeth's hand
indelible,) where fell, after being perforated by a brace o
bullets, Daniel M'Michael, a faithful witness to the truth
whose tomb, with its primitive and expressive inscription,
is still to be seen in the churchyard of Durisdeer
Grierson of Lag made a conspicuous figure in the parish o'
Closeburn in particular ; nor did my mother neglect to
point out to me the r ined tower and the waste domain
around it, which bespoke, according to her creed, the curse
of God upon the seed of the persecutor. His elegy — some-
what lengthy and dull — I could once repeat. I can now
only recall the striking lines where the Devil is introduced
as lamenting over the death of his faithful and unflinching
ally :—

" What fatal news is this I hear ?— -
On earth who shall my standard bear ? —
For Lag, who was my champion brave,
Is dead, and now laid in his grave.

" The want of him is a great grief-
He was my manager-in-chief,
Who sought my kingdom to improve ;
And to my laws he had great love," &c.

• ****»

And so on, through at least two hundred lines, composing
a pamphlet, hawked about, in my younger days, in every
huckster's basket, and sold in thousands to the peasantry
of Dumfriesshire and Galloway, at the price of one penny.
Whilst, however, the storm of evil passions raged with
such fury in what was termed the western districts in
particular, the poor, shelterless, and persecuted Covenanter
was not altogether destitute of help or comfort. According
to his own apprehension, at least, his Maker was on his
side ; his prayers offered up on the mountain and in the
cave, were heard and answered ; and a watchful Providence
often interfered, miraculously, both to punish his oppressors,
and warn him against the approach of danger. In evidence
of this, my mother was wont, amongst many others, to
quote the following instances, respecting which she herself
entertained no doubt whatever — instances which, having
never before been committed to paper, have at least the
recommendation of novelty in their favour.

One of the chief rendezvous of the Covenant, was
Auchincairn, in the eastern district of Closeburn. To
this friendly, but, on that account, suspected roof, did the
poor wanderer of the mist, the glen, and the mountain.

repair, at dead of night, to obtain what was barely neces.
sary for the support of nature. Grierson of Lag was not
ignorant of the fact, and, accordingly, by a sudden move-
ment, was often found sxirrounding the steading with men
and horses before daybreak ; yet, prompt and well arranged
as his measures were, they were never successful. The
objects of his search uniformly escaped before the search
was made. And this singular good fortune was owing,
according to my authority, to the following circumstance.
On the night previous to such an unwelcome visit, a little
bird, of a peculiar feather and note, such as are not to be
found in this country, came, and perchirtg upon the topmost
branch of the old ash tree in the corner of the garden,
poured forth its notes of friendly intimation. To these,
the poor skulking friend of the Covenant listened, by these
he was warned, lifted his eyes and his feet to the moun-
tain, and was safe.

The curate of Closeburn was eminently active in dis
tressing his flock. He was one of those Aberdeen divines
whom the wisdom of the Glasgow council had placed in
the three hundred pulpits vacated in consequence of a
drunken and absurd decree. As his church was deserted,
he had had recourse to compulsory measures to enforce
attendance, and had actually dragged servants and children,
in carts and hurdles, to hear his spiritual and edifying
addresses ; whilst, on the other hand, his spies and
emissaries were busied in giving information against such
masters and parents as fled from his grasp, or resisted
it. He had even gone so far, under the countenance and
sanction of the infamous Lauderdale, as to forbid Christian
burial in every case where there was no attendance on his
ministry. Such was the character, and such the conduct,
of the man against whom the prayers of a private meeting
of the friends of Presbytery were earnestly directed, on the
following occasion. The eldest son of the guidman of
Auchincairn had paid the debt of nature, and behoved to
be buried with his fathers in the churchyard of the parish.
To this, from the well-known character both of curate and
father, it was anticipated that resistance would be made.
Against this resistance, however, measures were taken of a
somewhat decided character. The body was to be borne
to the churchyard by men in arms, whilst a part of the
attendants were to remain at home, for the purpose of
addressing their Maker in united prayer and supplication.
Thus, doubly armed and prepared, the funeral advanced
towards the church and manse. Meanwhile, the prayer
and supplication were warm, and almost expostulatory,
that His arm might be stretched forth in behalf of his own
covenanted servants. A poor idiot, who had not been
judged a proper person to join in this service, was heard to
approach, and, after listening with great seeming attention
to the strain of the petitions which were made, he, at length,
unable to contain himself any longer, was heard to exclaim —
" Haud at him, sirs, haud at him — he's just at the pit brow !"
Surprising as it may appear, and incredulous as some may
be, there is sufficient evidence to prove, that, just about
the time when this prediction was uttered, the curate of
Closeburn, whilst endeavouring to head and hurry on a
party of the military, suddenly dropped down and ex-
pired.

Is it then matter of surprise, that, with my mother's
milk, I imbibed a strong aversion to all manner of oppression,
and that, in the broadest and best sense of the word, I
became "a Whig ?" To the mountain, then, and the flood, I
owe my spirit of independence — that shelly-coat covering
against which many arrows have been directed; to my mother,
and her Cameronian and political bias, I owe my detestation
of oppression — in other words, my political creed — together
with my poetical leanings. But to my venerated grand-
mother, in particular, I am indebted for my early acquaint-
ance with the whole history and economy of the spiritual

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

171)

kingdoms, divided, as they are, into bogle, ghost, and fairy-
land.

I shall probably be regarded as an enthusiast whose feel-
jiigs no future evidence can reclaim from early impressions,
when I express my regret that the dreams of my infancy
and bayhood have fled — those dreams of dark and bright
agency, which shall probably never again return to agitate
and interest — those dreams which charmed me in the midst
of a spiritual world, and taught me to consider mere matter
as only the visible and tangible instrument through which
spirit was constantly acting — those dreams which appear
as the shadow and reflection of sacred intimation, and which
serve to guard the young heart, in particular, from the cold
and revolting tenets of materialism. From the malevolence
of him who walks and who works in darkness — who goes
about like a roaring lion, (but, in our climate and country,
more frequently like a bull dog, or a nondescript bogle,)
seeking whom he may terrify — I was taught to fly into
rhe protecting arms of the omnipotent Jehovah ; that no
class of beings could break loose upon another, without his
high permission ; that the Evil One, under whatever dis-
guise or shape he might appear, was still restrained and
overmastered by the source of all good and of all safety ;
whilst, with the green-coated fairy, the laborious brownie,
and the nocturnal hearth-bairn, I almost desired to live
upon more intimate and friendly terms !

How poor, comparatively speaking, are the incidents, how
uninteresting is the machinery, of a modern fictitious nar-
rative!— sudden and unlooked for reappearances of those who
were thought to be dead, discoveries of substituted births,
with various chances and misnomers — " antres vast, and
deserts wild !" One good, tall, stalking ghost, with its com-
pressed lips and pointed fingers, with its glazed eye and
measured step, is worth them all ! Oh, for a real " white
lady" under the twilight of the year seventeen hundred and
forty ! When the elegant Greek or warlike Roman walked
abroad or dined at home, he was surrounded by all the in-
fluences of an interesting and captivating mythology — by
nymphs of the oak, of the mountain, and of the spring —
by the Lares and Penates of his fireside and gateway
— by the genius, the Ceres and the Bacchus, of his
banquet. When our forefathers contended for religious
and civil liberty on the mountain — when they prayed for
it in the glen, and in the silent darkness of the damp and
cheerless cave — they were surrounded, not by material images,
but by popular conceptions. The tempter was still in the
wilderness, with his suggestions and his promises ; and there,
too, was the good angel, to warn and to comfort, to
strengthen and to cheer. The very fowls of heaven bore on
their wing and in their note a message of warning or a
voice of comforting; and when the sound of psalms com-
mingled with the swelling rush of the cascade, there were
often heard, as it were, the harping of angels, the commingling
)f heavenly with earthly melody. All this was elevating
and comforting precisely in proportion to the belief by which
it was supported ; and it may fairly be questioned, whether
such men as Peden and Cameron would have maintainec
the struggle with so much nerve and resolution, if the sun
of their faith had not been surrounded by a halo ; if the
noonday of the Gospel had not shaded away imperceptibly
into the twilight of superstition. In fact, superstition, in its
softer and milder modifications, seems to form a kind o
barrier or fence around the " sacred territory ;" and i
seldom if ever fails to happen that, when the outworks
are driven in, the citadel is .in danger : when the good old
woman has been completely disabused of her harmless fancies
she may then aspire to the faith and the religious comforts o
the philosophy of Volney.

In confirmation of these observations, I may adduce tin
belief and life of my nearest relatives. To them — amids
all their superstitious impressions — religion, pure and unde

iled, was still the main hold — the sheet anchor, staid and
steadied by which they were enabled to bear up amidst
the turmoils and tempests of life. To an intimate acquaint-
ance with, and a frequent reading of the sacred volume, was
added, under our humble roof, family prayer, both morning
and evening — an exercise which was performed by mother
and daughter alternately, and in a manner which, had 1 not
actually thought them inspired, would have surprised me.
Those who are unacquainted with the ancient doric of our
devotional and intelligent peasantry, and with that musical
accentuation ^ or chant of which it is not only susceptible,
but upon which it is, in a manner, constructed," can have but
a very imperfect notion of family prayer, performed in the
manner I refer to. Many there are who smile at that fami-
liarity of address and homeliness of expression, which are
generally made use of ; but under that homely address there
lies a sincerity and earnestness, a soothing, arousing, and pene-
trating eloquence, which neither in public nor in private
prayer has ever been excelled. Again and again I have felt

my breast swell and my eyes fill, whilst the prayer of a parent
was presented at a throne of grace in words to the following
purpose : — "Help him, good Lord!" (speaking in reference to
myself) — " oh, help my puir, faitherless bairn, in the day of
frowardness and in the hour of folly — in the season of forget-
fulness and of unforeseen danger — in trial and in difficulty —
in life and in death. Good Lord, for his sainted father's sake,
(who is now, we trust, with Thee,) for my puir sake, who am
unworthy to ask the favour, and, far aboon and above a', for
thine own well beloved Son's sake — do Thou be pleased
to keep, counsel, and support my puir helpless wean, when
mine eyes shall be closed, and my lips shall be shut, and my
hands shall have ceased to labour. Thou that didst visit
Hagar and her child in the thirsty wilderness — Thou that didst
bring thy servant Joseph from the pit and the miry clay —
Thou that didst carry thy beloved people Israel through a
barren desert to a promised and a fruitful land — do Thou be
a husband and a father to me and mine ; and, oh, forbid that
in adversity or in prosperity, by day or by night, in the
solitude or in the city, we should ever forget thee !"

In an age when, amongst our peasantry in particular, family
prayer is so extensively and mournfully neglected — when the
farmer, the manufacturer, the mechanic, not to mention the
more elevated orders, have ceased to obey the injunction laid
upon all Presbyterian parents in baptism — it is refreshing
to look back to the time when the taking of the book, as it
was termed, returned as regularly as the rising and the
setting of the sun — when the whole household convened
together, morning and evening, to worship the God of their
fathers. In public worship, as well as in private prayer,
there is much of comforting and spiritual support. It is
pleasing, as well as useful,to unite voice with voice, and heart
with heart ; it is consolatory, as well as comforting, to retire
from the world to commune with one's heart and be still ;
but it is not the less delightful and refreshing to unite in
family prayer the charities and sympathies of life — to come
I to the throne of mercy and of pardon, in the attitude
and capacity of parent and child, brother and sister, husband
and wife, master and servant, and to express, in the common
confession, petition, and thanksgiving, our united feelings of
sinfulness, resignation, and gratitude.

Milton paints beautifully the first impressions which death
made upon Eve ; and, sure I am, that, though conceived in
sin and brought forth in iniquity, I remember the time
when I was entirely ignorant of death. I had indeed been
informed that I had a father, but as to any change which
had been effected upon him by death, I was as ignorant as
if I had been embowered, from my birth, amidst the ever-
greens of Paradise. Everything around me appeared to be
permanent and undying, almost unchanging. The sun set
only to rise again ; the moon waned, and then reappeared,
reassured iu strength and repaired in form ; the stars, in

180

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

their courses, walkerf steadily and uniformly over my head ;
the flowers faded and flourished ; the birds exchanged silence
for song ; the domestic animals were all my acquaintances
from the dawn of memory. To me, and to those associated
with me, similar events happened : we ate, drank, went to
sleep, and arose again, with the utmost regularity. I had,
indeed, heard of death as of some inconceivable evil ; but, in
my imagination, its operation had no figure. I had not even
seen a dog die ; for my father's favourite Gipsy lived for
nine years after his death — a cherished and respected pen-
sioner. At last, however, the period arrived when the spell
was to be broken for ever — when I was to be let into the
secret of the house of corruption, and made acquainted with
the change which death induces upon the human countenance.
My grandmother had attained a very advanced old age ;
yet was she straight in person, and perfect in all her mental
faculties. Her countenance, which I still see distinctly,
was expressive of good will ; and the wrinkles on her brow
served to add a kind of intellectual activity to a face natur-
ally soft, and even comely. She had told me so many
stories, given me so many good advices, initiated me so
carefully in the elements of all learning, " the small and
capital letters," and, lastly, had so frequently interposed
betwixt me and parental chastisement, that I bore her as
much good will and kindly feeling as a boy of seven years
could reasonably be expected to exhibit. True it is and of
verity, that this kindly feeling was not incompatible with
many acts of annoyance, for which I now take shame and
express regret ; but these acts were anything but malevolent,
being committed under the view of self-indulgence merely.
It was, therefore, with infinite concern that I received the
intelligence from my mother, that Grannie was, in all pro-
bability, on the point of leaving us, and for ever.

" Leaving us, and for ever," sounded in my ears like a
dream of the night, in which I had seen the stream which
passed our door swell suddenly into a torrent, and the
torrent into a flood, carrying me and everything around
me, away in its waters. I felt unassured in regard to my
condition, and was half disposed to believe that I was still
asleep, and imagining horrors ! But when my mother told
me that the disease which had for days confined my grand-
mother to bed would end in death — in other words, would
place her alongside of my father's grave in the churchyard
of Closeburn — I felt that I was not asleep, but awake to
some dreadful reality, which was about to overtake us.
From this period till within a few hours of her dissolution,
I kept cautiously and carefully aloof from all intercourse
with my grandmother — I felt as it were unwilling to renew
an intercourse which was so certainly, and so soon, and so
permanently to be interrupted ; so I betook myself to the
hills, and to the pursuit of all manner of bees and butterflies
I would not, in fact, rest ; and, as I lay extended on my
back amidst the heath, and marked the soft and filmy clouc
swimming slowly along, " making the blue one white," ]
thought of her who was dying, and of some holy and happy
residence far beyond the utmost elevation of cloud, or sun
or sky. Again and again I have risen from such reveries to
plunge myself headlong into the pool, or pursue with
increased activity the winged insects which buzzed am
flitted around me. Strange, indeed, are the impression
made upon our yet unstamped, unbiassed nature ; and couh
we in every instance recall them, their history would be S(
unlike our more recent experience, as to make us suspec
our personal identity. I do not remember any more recen
feeling which corresponded in character and degree with this
whose wayward and strange workings I am endeavouring t<
describe ; and yet in this case, and in all its accompaniments
I have as perfect a recollection of facts, and reverence o
feeling, as if I were yet the child of seven, visited for th
first time with tidings of death.

My grandmother's end drew nigh, and I was commanded

r rather dragged, to her bedside. There I still see her
ying, calm, but emaciated, in remarkably white sheets, and
head dress which seemed to speak of some approacliinr
hange. It was drawn closely over her brow, and covered
he chin up to her lips. Nature had manifestly given up
he contest ; and although her voice was scarcely audible, her
eason evidently continued unclouded and entire. She spoke

0 me slowly and solemnly of religion, obedience to my
nother, and being obliging to every one; laid, by my
nother's assistance, her hand upon my head, as I kneeled a'.

er bedside, and, in a few instants, had ceased to breathe. 1
ifted up my head, at my mother's bidding, and beheld a corpse.
SVhat 1 saw or what I felt, I can never express in words. I
can only recollect that I sprung immediately, horror-struck, to
my feet, rushed out at the door, made for the closest anf1
hickest part of the brushwood of the adjoining brae, and,
casting my self headlong into the midst of it, burst into,
ears. I wept, nay, roared aloud ; my grief and astonishment
vere intense, whilst they lasted, but they did not last long ;
"or, when I returned home about dusk, I found a small table
spread over with a clean cloth, upon which was placed a
>ottle with spirits, a loaf of bread, and cheese cut into pretty
arge pieces ; around this table sat my mother, with two old
women, from the nearest hamlet. They were talking, in a
ow but in a wonderfully cheerful tone, as I thought, and had
evidently been partaking of refreshment. Being asked to
oin them, I did so ; but, ever and anon, the white sheet in
the bed, which shaped itself out most fearfully into the human
fcrm, drew my attention, and excited something of the feeling
tvhich a ghost might have occasioned. I had ceased, in a great
measure, to feel for my grandmother's death. I now felt the
alarms and agitations of superstition. It was not because
she had fled from us that I was agitated ; but because that,
though dead, she still seemed present, in all the inconceivable
mystery of a dead life !

The funeral called forth, from the adjoining glens and
cottages, a 'respectable attendance ; and, at the same time,
gave me an opportunity of partaking, unnoticed, of more
refreshment than suited the occasion or my years ; in fact,

1 became little less than intoxicated, ai:d was exceedingly
surprised at finding myself, towards evening, in the midst
of the same bush where I had experianced my paroxysm of
grief, singing aloud, in all the exultation of exhilarated
spirits. Such is infancy and boyhood —

" The tear forgot, as soon as shed."

I returned, however, home thoughtful and sad, and never,
but once, thought the house so deserted and solitary as
during that evening.

My mother was not a Cameronian by communion, but
she was in fact one in spirit. This spirit she had by
inheritance, and it was kept alive by an occasional visit
from •' Fairly." This redoubted champion of the Covenan
drew me one day towards him, and, placing me betwixt his
knees, proceeded to question me how I would like to
be a minister ; and, as I preserved silence, he proceeded
to explain that he did not mean a parish minister, with a
manse, and glebe, and stipend, but a poor Cameronian hill-
preacher like himself. As he uttered these last words, I
looked up, and saw before me an austere countenance, and
a thread-bare black coat hung loosely over what is termed
a hunch -back. I had often heard Fairly mentioned, not
only with respect, but enthusiasm, and had already identified
him and his followers with the "guid auld persecuted
folks" of whom I had heard so much. Yet, there was
something so strange, not to say forbidding, in Fairly's
appearance, that I hesitated to give my consent, and con«
tinned silent ; whereupon Fairly rose to depart, observing to
my mother, that "my time was not come yet." I did not then
fully comprehend the meaning of this expression, nor do I
perhaps now, but it passed over my heart like an awaken-
ing breeze over the strings of an ^Eolian harp. I immedi-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

181

ately sprung forward, and catching Fairly by the skirt
of his coat, exclaimed —

" Oh, stay, sir ! — dinna gang and leave us, and I will do
onything ye like."

" But then mind, my wee man," continued Fairly, in
return, " mind that, if ye join us, ye will have neither house
nor hame, and will often be cauld and hungry, without a
bed to lie on."

"I dinna care," was my uncouth, but resolute response.

" There's mair metal in that callant than ye're aware o',"
rejoined Fairly, addressing himself to my mother, and look-
ing all the while most affectionately into my countenance.
"Here, my little fellow, here's a penny for ye, to buy a char-
itcher ; and, gin ye leeve to be a man, ye'll aiblins be
honoured wi' upholding the doctrines which it contains, on
the mountain and in the glen, when my auld banes are
mixed wi' the clods."

I looked again at Fairly as he pronounced these words,
and, had an angel descended from heaven, in all the radiance
and benignity of undimmed glory, such a presence would
not have impressed me more deeply with feelings of love,
veneration, and esteem.

This colloquy, short as it was, exercised considerable
influence over my future life.

I cannot suppose anything more imposing, and better
calculated to excite the imagination, than the meetings of
these Cameronians or hill men. They are still vividly under
my view : the precipitous and green hills of Durisdeer on
each side — the tent adjoining to the pure mountain stream
beneath — the communion table, stretching away in double
rows from the tent towards the acclivity — the vast multitude
in one wide amphitheatre around and above — the spring
gushing solemnly and copiously from the rock, as from
that of Meribah, for the refreshment of the people — the still
or whispering silence, when Fairly appeared, with the Bible
under his arm, without gown, or band, or any other clerical
badge of distinction — the tent-ladder, ascended by the
bald-headed and venerable old man, and his almost divine
regard of benevolence, cast abroad upon a countless multi-
tude— his earnestness' in prayer, his plain and colloquial
style of address, the deep and pious attention paid to him,
from the plaided old women at the front of the tent, to the
gaily dressed lad and lass on the extremity of the ground —
his descent, and the communion service — his solemn anc
powerful consecration prayer, over which the passing clouc
seemed to hover, and the sheep on the hill-side to forego,
for a time, their pasture — his bald head, (like a bare rock
encompassed with furze,) slightly fringed with grey hairs
remaining uncovered under the plashing of a descending
torrent, and his right hand thrust upward, in holy indigna-
tion, against the proffered umbrella : — all this I see under
the alternating splendours and darkenings, lights and shadows
of a sultry summer's day. The thunder is heard in its awfu
sublimity ; and, whilst the hearts of man and of beast an
quaking around and above, Fairly 's voice is louder and mor
confirmed, his countenance is brighter, and his eye mori
assured, and steadfastly fixed on the muttering heaven
"Thou, O Lord, art ever near us, but we perceive Thee not
Thou speakest from Zion, and in a still amall voice, but it i
drowned in the world's murmurings. Then thou comes
forth as now, in Thy throne of darkness, and encompassetl
Thy Sinai with thunderings and lightnings, and then it is
that, like silly and timid sheep, who have straypJ from thei
pasture, we stand afar off and tremble. This flash o
Thy indignant majesty, which has now crossed these agec
eyes, might, hadst Thou but so willed it, have dimmed them
for ever ; and this vast assemblage of sinful life might have
been, in the twinkling of an eye, as the hosts of Assyria, o
the inhabitants of Admah and Zeboim ; but thou knowest, C
Lord, that thou hast more work for me, and more mercy fo
them., and that the prayers of penitence which are now

^nocking hard for entrance and answer, must have time and
;rial to prove their sincerity So be it, good Lord ! — for thine
ire, that hath suddenly kindled, hath passed ; and the sun
of righteousness himself hath bid his own best image come
forth from the cloud, to enliven our assembly." In fact, the
thunder-cloud had passed, and, under the strong relief of a
renewed effulgence, was wrapping in its trailing ascent the
summits of the more distant mountains.

" I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid :

My safety cometh from the Lord"

These were the notes which pealed in the after service
of that memorable occasion, from, at least, ten thousand
hearts. Nor is there any object in nature better calculated
to call forth the most elevated sentiments of devotion, than
such a simultaneous concordant union of voice and purpose,
in praise of Him " who heaven and earth hath made.
" All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord"

So says the Divine Monitor ; but what says modern Fashion
and Refinement ? Let them answer, in succession, for
themselves. And first, then, in reference to Fashion. When
examined and duly purged, she deposeth that the time was,
when men were not ashamed to praise their God " before
His people all ;" when they even rejoiced, with what tones
they might, to unite their tributary stream of praise to that
vast flood which rolled, in accumulated efficacy, towards
the throne on high ; when lord and lady, husbandman
and mechanic, leatned and unlearned, prince and people,
sent forth their hearts, in their united voices, towards Him
who is the God over all and the Saviour of all. She
further deposeth, that the venerated founders of our Presby-
terian Church were wont to scare the curlew and the
bittern of the mountain and the marsh, by their nightly
songs of solemn and combined thanksgiving and praise ;
and that, with the view of securing a continuance of this
delightful exercise, our Confession of Faith strictly enjoins
us, providing, by the reading of " the line," against cases of
extreme ignorance or bodily infirmity ; and yet, she aver-
reth that, in defiance of law and practice, of reason and
revelation, of good feeling and commonsense, hath it become
unfashionable to be seen or to be heard praising God. It
is vulgar and unseemly, it would appear, in the extreme, to
modulate the voice or to compose the countenance into any
form or expression which might imply an interest in the
exercise of praise. The young Miss in her teens, whose
tender and susceptible heart is as wax to impressions, is
half betrayed into a spontaneous exhibition of devotional
feeling ; but she looks at the marble countenance and change-
less aspect of Mamma, and is silent. The home-bred, un-
adulterated peasant would willingly persevere in a practice
to which he has been accustomed from his first entrance at
the church stile ; but his superiors, from pew and gallery,
discountenance his feelings, and indicate, by the carelessness,
I had almost added the levity of their demeanour, ^that they
are thinking of anything, of everything, but God's praise ;
whilst the voices of the hired precentor, and of a few old
women and rustics, are heard uniting in suppressed and
feeble symphony. Nay, there is a case still more revolting
than any which has been hitherto denounced — that, namely,
of our young probationers and ministers, who, in many
instances, refuse, even in the pulpit, that example which,
with their last breath, they were, perhaps, employed in
recommending. There they sit or stoop whilst the psalm
is singing, busily employed in revising their M.S. ; or in
reviewing the congregation ; in selecting and marking for
emphasis the splendid passages ; or in noting for observation
whatever of interesting the dress or the countenaces of the
people may suggest. So much for Fashion ; and now for
the deposition of Refinement on the same subject.

Refinement has, indeed, much to answer for:she has
brushed the coat threadbare; she has wiredrawn the thread

182

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

till it cau scarcely support its own weight ; and, in no one
instance, has her besetting sin been more conspicuous than
in her intercommunings with our church psalmody. The
old women, who., from the original establishment of Presby-
tery, have continued to occupy and grace our pulpit stairs,
are oftentimes defective in point of sweetness and delicacy
of voice — in fact, they do not sing, but croou ; and, in some
instances, they have even been known to outrun the precen-
tor by several measures, and to return upon him a second
time ere the conclusion of the line. What then ? — they
always croon in a low key ; and, if they are gratified, their
Maker pleased, and the congregation in general undisturbed,
the principal parties are disposed of. There is, no doubt,
something unpleasing, to a refined ear, in the jarring concord
of a rustic euphony, when, in full voice, of a sacramental
Sabbath evening, they are inclined to hold on with irresist-
ible swing. But what they want in harmony, they have in
good will ; what they lose in melody, they gain in the
ringing echo of their voices from roof and ceiling. And,
were it possible, without silencing the uninstructed, to
gratify and encourage the refined and the disciplined, then
were there at once a union and a unison of agreeables ; but,
as this object has never been effected, or even attempted, and
as Refinement has at once laid aside all regard for the humble
and untrained worshipper, and has set her stamp and seal
upon a trained band of vocal performers, it becomes the duty
of all rightly constituted minds to oppose, if they cannot stem
the tide — to mark and stigmatize that as unbecoming and
absurd, which the folly of the age would have us consider
as improvement. It is of little moment, whether the
office of psalm-singing be committed to a silent band, who
surround, with their merry faces and tenor pipes, the pre-
centor's seat, or be entrusted to separate parties, scattered
through the congregation — still, so long as the taught alone
are expected to sing, the original end of psalm-singing
is lost sight of, the habits of a Presbyterian congregation
are violated, and manner being preferred to matter — an
attuned voice to a fervent spirit — a manifest violence is
done to the feelings of the truly devout.

No two things are probably more distinct and separate in
the reader's mind, than preaching and fishing ; yet in mine
they are closely associated.

And is not fishing or angling with the rod a most fascinating
amusement ? There is just enough of address required to
admit and imply a gratifying admixture of self-approbation,
and enough, at the same time, of chance or circumstance over
which the fisher has no control, to keep expectation alive
even during the most deplorable luck. Hence a real fisher
is seldom found, from want of success merely, to relinquish
nis rod in disgust ; but, with the spirit of a true hill man of
the old school, he is patient in tribulation, rejoicing in hope
"Meliore opera" is written upon his countenance ; and whilst
mischance and misfortune haunt him, it may be, from stream
to stream, or from pool to pool, he still looks down the
glen, and along the river's course ; he still regards in anxious
expectation the alluring and more promising curl, the
circulating and creamy froth, the suddenly broken and
hesitating gullet, and the dark clayey bank, under which
the water runs thick and the foam-bells figure bright and
starry. He knows that one single hour of successful ad-
venture, when the cloud has ascended and the shadow is
deep, and the breeze comes upwards on the stream, and
the whole finny race are in eager expectation of the ap-
proaching shower — that one single hour of this description
will amply repay him for every discouragement and mis-
fortune.

And who that has enjoyed this one little hour of success,
would consider the purchase as dearly made ? Is it with bait
that you are angling ? — and in the solitude of a mountain glen
can you discover the stream of your hope, stretching away,
like a blue pennant waving into the distance, and escaping

from view, behind some projecting angle of the hill ? Your
fishing-rod is tight and right, your line is in order, your
hook penetrates your finger to the barb ; other companions
than the plover, the lark, and the water-wagtail, you have
none. This is no hour for chirping grashopper, or flaunt-
ing butterfly, or booming bee ; the overshaded and rufiied
water receives your bait with a plump ; and, ere it has
travelled to the distance of six feet, it is nailed down to the
leeward of a stone ; you pull recklessly and fearlessly, and,
flash after flash, and flap after flap, comes there in upon
your hull the spotted and ponderous inmate of the flood !
Or is it the fly with which you are plying the river's fuller
and more seaward flow ? The wide extent of streamy
pool is before you and beyond your reach. Fathom after
fathom goes reeling from your pirn ; but still you are barely
able to drop the far fly into the distant curl. " Habet !" he
has it ; ana proudly does he bear himself in the plenitudes
of strength, space, and freedom. Your line cuts and carves
the water into all manner of squares, triangles, and parallel-
ograms. Now he makes a few capers in the air, and shews
you, as an opera dancer would do, his proportions and
agility ; now again, he is sulky and restive, and gives you to
understand that the vis inertias is strong within him.
But fate is in all his operations, and his last convulsive
effort makes the sand and the water commingle at the
landing-place.

The resort of the fisher is amidst the retirements of what,
and what alone, can be justly denominated undegraded
nature. The furnace, and the manufactory, and the bleach-
ing-green, and the tall, red, smoke-vomiting chimney, are his
utter aversion. The village, the clachan, the city, he
avoids ; he flies from them as from something intolerably
hostile to his hopes. He holds no voluntary intercourse
with man, or with his petty and insignificant achievements.
"He lifts his eyes to the hills," and his steps lie through
retired glen, and winding vale, and smiling strath, up to the
misty eminence and cairn -topped peak. He catches the
first beams of the sun, not through the dim and disfiguring
smoke of a city, but over the sparkling and diamonded moun-
tain, above the unbroken and undulating line of the distant
horizon. His conversation is with heaven — with the mist,
and the cloud, and the sky ; the great, the unmeasured, the
incomprehensible are around him ; and all the agitation and
excitement to which his hopes and fears as a mere fisher
subject him., cannot completely withdraw his soul from
that character of sublimity by which the mountain solitude
is so perceptibly impressed.

I shall never forget one day's sport. The morning
was warm, and in fact somewhat sultry; and swarms
of insects arose on my path. As every gullet was gush-
ing with water, it behoved me to ascend, even beyond
my former travel, to the purest streams or feeders, which
run unseen, in general, among the hills. The clouds,
as I hurried on my way, began to gather up into a
dense and darkening awning. There was a slight and
somewhat hesitating breeze on the hill-side — for I could
see the heath and bracken bending under it ; but it was
scarcely perceptible beneath. This, however, I regretted the
less, as the mountain torrent to which I had attached
myself was too precipitous and streamy in its course to
require the aids of wind and curl to forward the sport.
Let the true fisher — for he only can appreciate the circum-
stances— say, what must have been my delight, my rapture,
as I proceeded to prepare my rod, open out my line over
the brink of a gullet, along which the water rushed like
porter through the neck of a bottle, and at the lower
extremity of which the froth tilted round and round in most
inviting eddies. Here there were no springing of trouts to
the surface, nor coursing of alarmed shoals beneath. The
darkened heaven was reflected back by the darker water ;
and the torrent kept dashing, tumbling, and brawling along

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

183

under the impulse and agitation of a swiftly ebbing flood.
I had hit upon that very critical shade, betwixt the high
brown and soft blue colour, which every mountain angler
knows well how to appreciate ; and I felt as if every turn
and entanglement of my line, formed a barrier betwixt me
and paradise. The very first throw was successful, ere the
bait had travelled twice round the eddy at the bottom
of the gullet. "When trouts, in such circumstances, take
at all, they do so in good earnest. They are all on the outlook
for food, and dash at the swiftly-descending bait with a
freedom and good will which almost uniformly insures
their capture. And here, for the benefit of bait fishers, it
may be proper to mention that success depends not so much
on the choosing and preparing of the worms — though these
undoubtedly are important points — as in the throwing and
drawing, or rather dragging of the line. In such mountain
rapids, the trout always turn their heads to the current, and
never gorge the bait till they have placed themselves lower
down in the water ; consequently, by pulling downwards,
two manifest advantages are gained : the trout is often
hooked without gorging, or even biting at all, and the
current assists the fisher in landing his prize, which, in such
circumstances, may be done in an instant, and at a single
pull. But to return. My success on this occasion was
altogether beyond precedent ; at every turn and wheel of
the winding torrent, I was sure to grace the green turf or
sandy channel with another and another yellow-sided and
brightly-spotted half-pounder. The very sheep, as they
travelled along their mountain pathway, stopped and gazed
down on the sport. The season was harvest, and the
Lammas floods had brought up the bull or sea trouts. I had
all along hoped that one or two stragglers might have reached
my position ; and this hope had animated every pull. It was
not, however, till the day was well advanced, that I had
the good fortune to succeed in hooking a large, powerful,
active, and new-run " milter." In fisher weight, he might
seem Jive, but in imperial, he would possibly not exceed
two or three pounds. Immediately upon his feeling the
steel, he plunged madly, flung himself into the air, dived
again into the depths, and flounced about in the most active
and courageous style imaginable. At last, taking the stream
head somewhat suddenly, he shewed tail and fin above the
surface of the water, brought his two extremities almost
into contact, shot himself upwards like an arrow, and was
off with the hook and a yard of line ere I had time to pre-
pare against the danger ; but, as unforeseen circumstances
led to this catastrophe, occurrences equally unlocked for
repaired the loss ; for, in an instant, I secured the disengaged
captive whilst floundering upon the sand, having, by his
headlong precipitancy, fairly pitched himself out of his
native element. There he lay, like a ship in the shallows,
exhibiting scale and fin, and shoulder and spot, of the most
fascinating hue ; and, ever and anon, as the recollection of
the fatal precipitancy seemed to return upon him, he cut a
few capers and exhibited a few somersets, which contributed
materially to insure his capture and increase my delight.

By this time I had ascended nearly to the source of the
stream ; and at every opening up of the glen, I could per-
ceive a sensible diminution of the current. I was quite alone
in the solitude ; and my unwonted success had rendered
me insensible to the escape of time. The glen terminated
at last in a linn and scaur, beyond which it did not appear
probable that trouts would ascend. Whilst I was engaged
in the consideration of the objects around me, with a refer-
ence to my return home, I became all at once enveloped in
mist and darkness. The mist was dense, and close, and
suffocating, whilst the darkness increased every instant. I
felt a difficulty in breathing, as if I had been shut up in an
empty oven ; my situation stared me at once in the face,
and 1 took to my heels over the heath, in what I considered a
homeward direction. Now that my ears were relieved from

the gurgling sound of the water, I could perceive, through
the stillness of the air, that the thunder was behind me.
I had been taught to consider thunder as the voice of the
" Most High," when he speaks in his wrath, and felt my
whole soul prostrated under the divine rebuke. Some
passages of the 18th Psalm rushed^ on my remembrance ;
and, as the lightnings began to kindle, and the thunder to
advance, I could hear myself, involuntarily, repeating —

" Up from his nostrils came a smoke,

And from his mouth there came
Devouring fire ; and coals by it

Were turned into flame.

" The Lord God also in the heavens

Did thunder in his ire,
And there the Highest gave his voice—

Hail-stones and coals of fire."

Such was the subject of my meditation, as the muttering, and
seemingly subterraneous thunder boomed and quavered be-
hind me. At last, one broad and whizzing flash passed over,
around, beneath, and I could almost imagine, through me
The clap followed instantly, and, by its deafening knell,
drove me head foremost into the heathy moss. Had the
earth now opened (as to Curtius of old) before me, I should
certainly have dashed into the crater, in order to escape
from that explosive omnipotence which seemed to overtake
me. Peal after peal pitched, with a rending and tearing
sound, upon the drum of my ear and the parapet of my
brain ; whilst the mist and the darkness were kindled up
around me, into an oven glow. I could hear a strange rush
upon the mountain, and along the glen, as if the Solway had
overleaped all bounds, and was careering some thousand feet
abreast over Criffel and Queensberry. Down it came at
last, in a swirl and a roar, as if rocks, and cairns, and
heath were commingled in its sweep. This terrible blast
was only the immediate precursor of a hail storm — which,
descending at first in separate and distinct pieces, as if the
powers of darkness and uproar had been pitching marbles —
came on at last with a rush, as if Satan himself had been
dumriddling the elements. The water in the moss-hag
rose up, and boiled and sputtered in the face of heaven,
and a rock, underneath the hollow corner of which I had
now crept on hands and knees, rattled all over, as if assailed
by musketry. I lay now altogether invisible to mortal eye,
amidst the mighty movement^ .of the elements — a thing of
nought, endeavouring to crawl into nonentity — a tiny per-
cipient amidst the blind urgency of nature. I lay in all the
prostration of a bruised and subdued spirit, praying fer-
vently and loudly unto God that he might be pleased to
cover me with his hand till his wrath was overpast. And,
to my persuasion at the time, my prayers were not alto-
gether inefficient : the storm softened — rain succeeded to
hail, a pause followed the hurricane, and the thunder'?
voice had already travelled away over the brow of the on-
ward mountain.

Whilst I was debating with myself whether it were
safer, now that the night had fairly closed in upon the
pathless moor, to remain all night in my present position, or
to attempt once more my return home, I heard, all of
a sudden, the sound of human voices, which the violence
of the storm had prevented me from sooner perceiving. I
scarcely knew whether I was more alarmed or comforted
by this discovery. From my previous state of agitation,
combined with my early and rooted belief in all manner of
supernaturals, I was strongly disposed to terror ; but the
accents were so manifestly human, that, in spite of my
apprehensions, they tended to cheer me. As I continued,
therefore, to listen with mouth and ears, the voices became
louder and louder, and more numerous, mixed and commingled
as they appeared at last to be, with the tread and the plash
of horses' feet. These demonstrations of an approaching
cavalcade, naturally called upon me to narrow, as much
and as speedily as possible, my circumference; in other

184

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

words, to creep, as it were, into my shell, by occupying the
furthest extremity of the recess, to which I betook myself
at first for shelter, and now for concealment. There I lay,
like a limpet stuck to the rock, against which I could feel
my heart beat with accelerated rapidity. In this situation,
I could distinguish voices and expressions, and ultimately
unravel the import of a conversation interlarded with oaths
and similar ornamental flourishes. There was a proposal
to halt, alight, and refresh in this sequestered situation.
Such a proposal, as may readily be supposed, was to me
anything but agreeable. Here was I, according to my reck-
oning, surrounded by a band of robbers, and liable every
instant to detection. Fire arms were talked of, and pre-
parations, offensive or defensive, were proposed. I could
distinctly smell gunpowder. In the meantime, a fire was
struck up at no great distance, under the glare of which I
could distinguish horses heavily panniered, and strange
looking countenances, congregating within fifty paces of
my retreat. The shadow of the intervening corner of the
rock covered me— otherwise immediate detection would
have been inevitable. The thunder and lightnings, with
all their terrors, were nothing to this. In the one case, I
was placed at the immediate disposal of a merciful, as well
as a mighty Being ; but at present I ran every risk of falling
into the hands of those whose counsels I had overheard
and whose tender mercies were only cruelty. As I lay,
rod, basket, and fish, crumpled up into a corner of con-
tracted dimensions — all ear, however, and eye towards the
light — I could mark the shadows of several individuals, who
were manifestly engaged in the peaceful and ordinary pro-
cess of eating and drinking ; hands, arms, and flaggons
projected in lengthened obscurity over the mass, and inti-
mated, by the rapidity and character of their movements,
that jaws were likewise in motion. The long pull, with
the accompanying smack, were likewise audible ; and it
was manifest that the repast was not more substantial than
the beverage was exhilarating — " Word follows word, from
question answer flows." Dangers and contingencies — which,
while the flame was kindling and the flaggon was filling,
seemed to agitate and interest all — were now talked of as
bugbears ; and oaths of heavy and horrifying defiance were
hurled into the ear of night, with many concomitant ex-
pressions of security and self-reliance. The night, though
dark, had now become still and warm ; and the ground
which they occupied, like my own retreat, had been par-
tially protected from the hail and the rain by the projecting
rock. The stunted roots of burnt heath, or " birns,"
served them plentifully for fuel ; and altogether their situa-
tion was not so uncomfortable as might have been expected.
Still, however, their character, employment, and conversa-
tion, appeared to me a fearful mystery. One thing, how-
ever, was evident, that they conceived themselves as
engaged in some illegal transactions. Their whole revel
was tainted with treason and insubordination ; kings and
rulers were disposed of with little ceremony ; and excise
officers, in particular, were visited with anathemas not to
be mentioned. At this critical moment, when the whole
party seemed verging towards downright intoxication, a
pistol bullet burst itself to atoms on the projecting corner
of the rock ; and the report which accompanied this demon-
stration was followed up by oaths of challenge and impre-
cation. The fire went out as if by magic, and an imme-
diate rush to arms, accompanied by shots and clashing of
lethal weapons, indicated a struggle for life.

" Stand and surrender, you smuggling scoundrels ! or by
all that is sacred, not one of you shall quit this spot in
life !"

This salutation was answered by a renewed discharge of
musketry ; and the darkness, which was relieved by the
momentary flash, became instantly more impenetrable than
«ver. Men evidently pursued men, and horses were held

by the bridle, or driven into speed as circumstance* per-
mitted. How it happened that I neither screamed, fainted,
nor died outright, I am yet at a loss to determine. The
darkness, however, was my covering ; and even amidst the
unknown horrors of the onset, I felt in some degree
assured by the extinction of the fire. But this assurance
was not of long continuance : the assailing party had evi-
dently taken possession of the field ; and, after a few ques-
tions of mutual recognition and congratulation, proceeded
to secure their booty, which consisted of one horse, with a
considerable assortment of barrels and panniers. This was
done under the light of the rekindled fire, around which a
repetition of the former festivities was immediately com-
menced. The fire, however, now flared full in my face,
and led to my immediate detection. I was summoned to
come forth, with the muzzle of a pistol placed within a fe\v
inches of my ear — an injunction which I was by no means
prepared to resist. I rolled immediately outwards from
under the rock, displaying my basket and rod, and scream-
ing all the while heartily for mercy. At this critical mo-
ment, a horse was heard to approach, and a challenge was
immediately sent through the darkness ; every musket was
levelled in the direction of the apprehended danger ; when
a voice, to which I was by no means a stranger, imme-
diately restored matters to their former bearing.

" Now, what is the meaning o' a' this, my lads ? And

how come the King's servants to be sae ill lodged at this

time o' night ? He must be a shabby landlord that has

j naething better than the bare heath and the hard rock to

accommodate his guests wi'."

" Oh, Fairly, my old man of the covenant," vociferated
the leader of the party, " how come you to be keeping
company with the whaup and the curlew at this time o'
night? But a drink is shorter than a tale ; fling the bridle
owre the grey yad's shoulders, an' ca' her to the bent, till
we mak ourselves better acquainted with this little natty
gentleman, whom we have so opportunely encountered on
the moor" — displaying, at the same time, a keg or small
cask of the liquor referred to, and shaking it joyously, till
it clunked again.

In sin instant, Fairly was stationed by the side of the fire,
with a can of Martin's brandy in his hands, and an expres-
sion of exceeding surprise on his countenance, as he per-
ceived my mother's son, in full length, exhibited before
him. I did not, however, use the ceremony of a formal re-
cognition ; but, rushing on his person, I clung to it with all
the convulsive desperation of a person drowning. Matters
were now adjusted by mutual recognitions and explanations ;
and I learned that I had been the unconscious spectator ol
a scuffle betwixt the " king's officers" and a " band of
smugglers ;" and that Fairly, who had been preaching and
baptizing that day at Burnfoot, and was on his return to-
wards Durisdeer, (where he was next day to officiate,)
had heard and been attracted to the spot by the firing. In
these times to which I refer, the Isle of Man formed a
depot for illegal traffic. Tea, brandy, and tobacco, in parti-
cular, found their way from the Calf of Man to the Rinne of
Galloway, Richmaden, and the mouth of the Solway.
From the latter depot, the said articles were smuggled, dur-
ing night marches, into the interior, through such byways
and mountain passes as were unfrequented or inaccessible.
After suitable libations had been made, I was mounted
betwixt a couple of panniers, and soon found myself in my
own bed, some time before

* That hour o' night's black arch the keystane !"

WILSON'S

al, STrafctttonarg, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SCOTCH LAW.

!t WELL, James, I'll tell ye what we'll do. "We'll refer our
claims to Emily herself, and let her decide between us, and
that will end the matter at once and for ever ; if she should
prefer you, depend upon it, I will not cross your path in
any way ; if she should prefer me, I shall expect that you
will not cross mine."

This, introduced by some preliminary conversation which
we do not think it necessary to record, was said by a young
man of the name of Whitford — to be afterwards more fully
spoken of — to his friend, or at least acquaintance, James
Bryson, also a young man, and of whom we shall likewise
subsequently speak at more length.

" Oh, ho, friend \" replied the latter to this proposal, with
a contemptuous sneer, " catch me there if you can. You
must think me a confounded fool, indeed, Whitford, if you
imagine I would trust my happiness, and I may say my
fortune too, to one throw of the dice. No, no, Charlie — I
mean to continue the game. You may do as you like. I
know perfectly how far your sly, wheedling, hypocritical
manner, and smooth tongue, have imposed upon Emily's
good nature already, and that, on the footing on which you
have contrived to place yourself with her, I should have
but little chance if matters were brought at this moment to
the crisis you propose. But I shall persevere, Whitford ; and
if I do not succeed in disabusing her of the good opinion
she entertains of you, I shall know what and whom to blame
for my want of success ; and, mark me, Whitford," he added,
with a fiendish ferocity of manner, "if Emily, after all, decide
in your favour, hang me if I don't spoil some sport — that's
all." And the speaker rode off — for both he and his
acquaintance were mounted on the occasion of this meeting
— without allowing Whitford time to make any reply.

We now proceed to say who the interlocutors were — a
piece of information that may be conveyed in very short
space. Charles Whitford was, at the period of our story, a
young country practitioner in medicine and surgery, and a
lad of great promise. He possessed talents of a very high
order, was of excellent character and dispositions, and of
manners that did even more for him than his skill, great as
that was, by gaining him the good will and good opinion of all
with whom he came in contact, either in the way of his pro-
fession or otherwise. The young surgeon was, in short, a
general favourite, and was, in consequence, in a fair way of
making a handsome living by his practice ; but, at the moment
of which we speak of him, he had just begun the world, and
had little of its property beyond his case of lancets, and
nothing whatever to depend upon but his character and
abilities, his steady application to the discharge of his
professional duties, industry, and perseverance. With
these, however, he fearlessly commenced his career ; and
resolving that there should be nothing wanting on his own
part, he felt confident in the result. To a young medical
practitioner thus situated, nothing could be more advan-
tageous than a matrimonal connection with some family of
influence in the district in which he resided, where there
should be a reasonable share of wealth, of respectability, and
local influence ; and such a piece of good fortune as this,
the young surgeon was not unlikely to be blessed with.
128. VOL. III.

In the neighbourhood of the village of , in which he

resided, there lived a gentleman of the name of Maxwell.
He was a retired captain of the navy, and a man of con-
siderable property and influence. Captain Maxwell was a
widower, with an only child, Emily Maxwell, a lively,
pretty, and interesting girl of nineteen ; and at the house
of her father, Whitford was a frequent visitor, both profes-
sionally and as a friend ; for, in the former capacity, his
presence was frequently required by the captain, whose health
had suffered in foreign climes ; but in both he was equally
welcome. The course of events here was a perfectly natural
one : the young surgeon was captivated with the elegant
form, pleasing manners, cultivated mind, and gentle dis-
positions of Emily Maxwell ; and she was no less taken
with the qualities, both mental and personal, of the young
practitioner; and an attachment, mutual, ardent, and sincere,
was the consequence. But Whitford had not the field to
himself; he was not to be permitted to carry off the prize un-
disputed. He had a rival, and this rival was James Bryson,
the son of a neighbouring proprietor, who, at his death — for
the latter was now dead several years — had left him con-
siderable property ; but it had suffered grievously in the
hands of the son, who kept open house, night and day, after
his father's decease, for all the idle and dissipated of his
acquaintance who chose to avail themselves of his reckless
hospitality, until he had almost literally nothing left to give
them — a condition from which he would willingly have
relieved himself, by obtaining the hand of Emily Slaxwell,
whose fortune, he calculated, would enable him to resume
the course of dissipation which the exhaustion of means had
interrupted.

Young Bryson, at this period, occupied a large mansion
at the west end of the village in which Whitford resided.
In his father's time, this house presented a highly respectable
appearance. It was regularly overcast on the outside every
year ; and the ornamental grounds around it — its walks,
plots of flowers, and shrubbery — were always kept in the
most perfect order ; and thus gave an air, not only of comfort
but elegance, to the villa of Oakfield, as the house was
called. But how different was its appearance in the posses-
sion of its new master ! Everything within it and around it
was allowed to go to decay. The shrubbery and flower,
plots were neglected ; the walks, once so trim and neat, were
overrun with grass and weeds ; and the house itself was
disfigured by huge stains, imprinted by the dirty water
from the roof, which, escaping in fifty places from the
dilapidated gutters on the eaves, streamed down the walls,
and left its traces in broad black lines — thus imparting
to the mansion a peculiar air of discomfort and squalor.
Yet, while money lasted, was there little correspondence
between the exterior and interior of Oakfield House. The
former was, as we have described it, all discomfort and di-
lapidation— the latter all riotous mirth and debauchery ;
groaning tables and oft-replenished wine baskets telling of
the ruin that was going forward. Hundreds were spent in
the inside of the house, but not one sixpence could be spared
for the out.

At the precise period of our story, however, this revelry
had ceased ; and for the very good reason assigned — namely,
the want of means to continue it ; and in the midst of the

186

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

desolation which he himself had created, sat, stern and
gloomy, the master of the by-gone revels, ruminating on the
misery he had brought on himself, and how he might retrieve
his fallen fortunes ; and when he thought of the latter, he
thought of Emily Maxwell.

Such was the rival of the young surgeon; and, had it not
been for the worthlessness of his character, and the well
known depravity of his habits, he might, perhaps, have
been a formidable one; for he was accomplished, of a hand-
gome person, and, when he chose, of very agreeable manners,
though they were naturally rough and boisterous; but, as it
was, he had little chance of superseding the former in the
affections of a creature so mild and gentle as her^-we can-
not say whose hand — but whose fortune he sought.

The particular occasion and circumstances on and in
which Bryson and Whitford met, when the conversation
with which we opened our tale passed, was their coming
accidentally in contact one day in a narrow by-road, by which
Whitford was passing to visit a patient at some miles' dis-
tance, and Bryson was returning home from a fox-chase in
which he had been a participator. Their meeting on this
occasion was involuntary, as, indeed, were all their meetings,
particularly on the part of Bryson, who avoided his rival,
because he hated him. The former also avoided the latter
when he could; but he did not do so from any dislike
he entertained of him personally, but from a desire to
escape the unpleasant .feelings which the ferocity and bru-
tality of Bryson, on such occasions, was so well calculated
to excite.

Whitford was always a welcome visiter at Captain Max-
well's, though that gentleman did not feel altogether dis-
posed to look on the young surgeon in the light of a pro-
bable son-in-law. He expected better things for his
daughter; and certainly, in so far as regarded fortune, he had
a right to do so ; for Emily would bring her husband, who-
ever he might be, a considerable sum; and he expected, not
unreasonably, that that husband should be at least as well
provided as she was. In point of character, conduct, and
dispositions, he would have had no objection to Whitford
becoming the husband of his daughter. His want of for-
tune was the only desideratum, therefore ; but it was to
him one of so serious a nature, that he never admitted to
himself for a moment the possibility of their ever being
united. If these, however, were his sentiments regarding
Whitford, those he entertained on the same question, in
relation to Bryson, were of a still more hopeless character
for the interests of that person. No advantages of fortune,
on the part of the latter, would have induced him to be-
stow his daughter's hand on him ; and, knowing him to be
not only a bad but a ruined man, he would have shut his
door altogether against the visits of the impoverished spend-
thrift, who was an almost daily caller at Spring Vale, the
captain's residence, but from regard to the memory of
his father, who was one of his oldest and most intimate
friends.

Thus stood matters with the different dramatis personce
whom we have introduced to the reader, at the period
when we would have him to take an interest in their pro-
ceedings.

Some time afterthemeetingbetween Whitford andBryson,
as recorded at the outset of our story, the former called
one evening, as was his frequent custom, at Spring Vale —
on this occasion, however, ostensibly to ascertain what
relief Captain Maxwell had experienced from a certain
medicine he had prescribed, but in reality to spend half an
hour with Emily. It would be unfair to insinuate that the
gallant officer's health was a matter of no interest to the
young practitioner ; but it will be a safe presumption that
he acted under the influence of a double motive, although
it must be confessed that his inquiries as to the effects of
his prescription might have been very well delayed without

any injury to the patient, and might even have been deemed,
by a captious marker of trifles, as altogether unnecessary.
However this may have been, Whitford, on reaching Spring
Vale, found, with some surprise, and no little satisfaction,
for more reasons than one, that the Captain had got so
much better that he had gone out to take an airing on
horseback. Emily, therefore, he found alone — a circum-
stance, however, of rare occurrence, as she usually accom-
panied him when he went abroad, which was seldom, and
was almost constantly by his side when at home. This
was an opportunity for a tete-a-tete which Whitford had
rarely enjoyed ; and it was one which he now suddenly
resolved to avail himself of for bringing matters to a crisis
with Emily, by having a certain question — one which he
had never hinted at before — settled by her own lips. This
was, whether Bryson or himself was the more acceptable
suitor. Nay, he resolved to go a step further. He de-
termined, if he found the preference in his own favour, at
once to offer his hand to Emily, and to solicit her permis-
sion to ask her father's consent to their union. These were
high resolves to be so suddenly formed ; but they were
executed to the letter; and to both the points at issue
Whitford gradually obtained, from the blushing and inge-
nuous girl, such replies as made him one of the happiest of
men. She, however, warned him that he need entertain
but little hope of succeeding with her father, whom she
guessed, if she did not positively know, would object to the
poverty of her lover.

" Nevertheless," replied Whitford to this discourager, in
the matter of consulting her father, " I will try him. There
is no saying what he may be brought to do," he added
smiling, " when love pleads the cause."

Whitford now waited, with what sort of feelings we need
not describe, the return of Captain Maxwell, that he might
at once know the best and the worst he had to hope and to
fear, by making the momentous proposal. The sound of
horses' footsteps was soon after heard approaching. To
the young lover they had, somehow or other, a most unusual
sound. He had never been so affected by the tread of
horses' feet before ; their noise seemed to him on this
occasion invested with a strange and mysterious interest.
The captain appeared — for it was his pony's tramp that
had been heard ; and he also became the object of this odd
and unusual feeling with which the young man was in-
spired. To the eyes of Whitford he had never before
seemed so awful a personage as he did at this moment.

" Ha, Whitford, my lad, art there ?" exclaimed the
captain, dismounting, and immediately after taking the
former, who had hastened to the door to meet him, by the
hand. "Didn't miss the old boy much, I fancy, eh?
Plenty of society at Spring Vale without him, you rogue !—
Isn't that true ?" And the captain chuckled, laughed, and
looked very sly. " But where's the little jade — where's
Emily ?" he added — " she used always to meet me at the
door."

Whitford could have explained the reason why she
had departed from her usual custom on this occasion, and
why she was absent ; but he did not. He merely looked a
little confused, stammered, and said, but in such a way as
to be nearly unintelligible — " She's not far off, sir — I really
can't say — she'll be here directly — she may be up stairs,
perhaps."

" Why, man, what makes you look so glum to-day — eh,
doctor?" said Captain Maxwell, who had not at first ob-
served the confusion of his medical attendant, but who now
(they had by this time entered the little sitting parlour in
which the family spent the most of their time) perceived
something unusual in the expression of his countenance,
which was, indeed, sufficiently indicative of the excessive
mental anxiety and perturbation of its owner. " Anything
wrong, man? — anything wrong? Have you despatched

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

187

§ome poor soul'before his time in the way of your profession?
or have you swallowed one of your own pills ? I am told
there is nothing you doctors dread so much as that. But
where is Emily all this time ?" continued the impetuous and
garrulous old man ; and now approaching the bell-pull, to
summon either herself or some one who could give him
some intelligence of her.

Whitford felt this movement, simple as it was, to be a
decisive one, as it would, if executed, inevitably lead to
some such intrusion as would, in all probability, deprive
him of the present opportunity ; and such a one, he knew,
he might not readily find again, of making the important
communication on which all his hopes of happiness rested.
Feeling this, he rushed towards the captain, seized his arm,
and besought him to listen to him for a moment before
he rang, as he had something of importance to communicate
to him. The captain looked surprised ; but, without saying
anything, confronted his young friend, and, with an expres-
sion of intense curiosity, awaited the promised communication.
This, however, was not so readily forthcoming. Although
he had thus secured the attention of his auditor, the young
man, in the confusion of the moment, did not know precisely
how or where to begin ; and he stood for some time looking
in the captain's face, blushing and simpering, and seemingly
unable to find the use of his tongue.

" Why don't you speak, man ?" exclaimed Mr Maxwell,
becoming impatient at the hesitation of Whitford. " What
have you got to say ?"

The captain's irritation, thus expressed, had the effect of
instantly inspiring the young surgeon with the necessary
words and ideas ; and he now distinctly laid down his matri-
monial project before Emily's father, and sought his consent
It was some moments before the latter made any reply ; but
it was evident enough, from the expression of his counten-
ance, that the proposal was by no means agreeable to him
At length, however, he said, and with more of good nature
than might have been expected — •

" Charles, my man, as to character, conduct, and personal
qualities, I would have no objection to you as a son-in-law —
none in the world. But what have you wherewith to support
a wife ? You are but young, and have the world all to
begin yet. What, man, again I say, have you wherewith
to support a wife ?"

" Nothing, sir, I confess it," replied Whitford, " but this,"
he said, producing his lancet-case, " some skill in my pro-
fession, and a determination to use my best endeavours to
deserve success."

" Honestly said, my lad !" exclaimed Captain Maxwell
and at the same time seizing the young man's hand with
eager cordiality — " honestly and manfully said. Emily is
yours, Whitford — she is yours ; take her and welcome
With that spirit and these dispositions, you cannot bul
succeed, and I already know how well you are calculated
in other respects to secure my girl's happiness."

Tears of joy and rapture started into the eyes of the
happy Whitford, who now, in turn, seized the hand of Mr
Maxwell, with the view of expressing the deep gratitude he
felt for his generous conduct ; but his emotion checked his
utterance, and he could do no more than raise the hand he
held to his lips ; which, having done, he rushed out of the
apartment in a delirium of joy, flew up stairs to Emily's
apartment, where he knew she at the moment was, exclaim-
ing madly, as he ascended the steps by half dozens at a
time —

" He has consented, Emily — he has consented ! — you are
mine, you are mine — mine for ever !" And he burst into the
room, and clasped its fair inmate in his arms, in an ecstasj
of happiness.

Unaware of what had taken place, Bryson, on the fol
lowing day, paid one of his usual visits at Spring Vale, an
opportunity of which Captain Maxwell availed himself to

)ut an end to the hopes which he suspected Bryson enter-
ained of obtaining the hand of his daughter, although the
atter had never openly avowed his views on the subject, by
nforming him, merely as a piece of intelligence, of Emily's
ntended marriage ; and this he did in the blunt manner
peculiar to him.

" Well, James," he said, " we're going to have a wedding
ome of these days."

" A wedding !" exclaimed Bryson, turning pale at the
announcement. "Indeed! Who are the happy parties,
captain ?"

" Why, Emily and the young doctor. They're going to
buckle to ; and I think, after all, Emily might have done
— ">rse."

" Oh, doubtless, doubtless," replied Bryson, sneeringly,
3Ut with an agitation of manner which he could not conceal.
But his agitation did not so much resemble that of a dis-
appointed lover as of a balked gamester, who sees his last
stake swept from the board.

On receiving this intelligence, so fatal to his hopes, and
feeling that the distraction of his mind would not permit of
his conducting himself with the composure he wished to
assume, Bryson, affecting an engagement elsewhere, hurried
out of the house ; when, just as he was turning the corner
of the avenue which conducted to it from the highway, he
encountered Whitford.

" So," he said, pale with suppressed passion, and addressing
the latter, " you have gained your point, I find. Your cant
and hypocrisy have carried the day ; but, curse me, Whit-
ford," he added, with clenched teeth, " if I don't be revenged
of you for this !" And he again hurried off, without giving
his successful rival time to make any reply.

Whatever revenge, however, Bryson might have contem-
plated against Whitford in this moment of irritation, or
whatever might be the bitterness of his feelings on the
occasion, a little subsequent reflection seemed to have totally
altered his dispositions towards the former, substituting
charity for unkindness, and reconciling him to what could
not be helped. Reflection, in short, appeared to have shewn
Bryson the unreasonableness and unjustness of his conduct
towards his more fortunate rival, and to have inspired him
with a generous desire to atone for that conduct by conces-
sion and contrition.

About a week after the occurrence of the circumstance
just related, Whitford was surprised one forenoon by a call
from Bryson. There was a smile on his face, and a frankness
and cordiality in his manner — expressions of feelings very
unusual to him, and altogether extraordinary in the present
case. Seizing Whitford by the hand with a cordial grasp —

" Charles," he said, " shall you and I be friends ? I have
been thinking better of the matter between us, and have
called on you for the especial purpose of accomplishing this,
if it can be done. My feelings towards you, and my con-
sequent treatment of you, though ungracious, you will allow
were natural. You were my rival for the affections of a
delightful girl ; but we are rivals no longer. You have
secured the prize ; and, this being the case, I consider the
matter entirely over as concerns me, and earnestly desire
that we may exchange the character of rivals for that of
friends. I wish you joy, Charles, and many years of happi-

ness.

Confounded by the singularity of such an address as this
from Bryson, and, indeed, at the circumstance altogether, it
was some seconds before Whitford could make any reply.
At length, his kind and unsuspecting nature prevailing, he
returned the friendly grasp of his visiter, and expressed the
sincere pleasure he felt at this extinction of all unpleasant
feelings between them.

" Then, to convince me of your sincerity, Whitford, in this
reconciliation," said Bryson, " will you come and dine with
me to-morrow and let us solder this small affair of ours by

188

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

an evening of good fellowship ? There will be nobody there
but a friend or two."

Of this kindly invitation, made with so generous a pur-
pose, Whitford readily accepted; and, after many expressions
of good will, the new-made friends parted.

The position of the young surgeon altogether was now a
very enviable one. He enjoyed the good opinion and
esteem of all who knew him ; his business was rapidly
increasing ; he had secured the woman of his choice, and
with her at once an independency and the extensive local
influence of her father. His prospects, in short, were of the
brightest kind. Happiness in some of its most agreeable
forms presented itself on all sides, leaving him nothing to
wish for or desire.

In the meantime, matters were fast drawing towards the
" consummation devoutly to be wished" in all such cases as
that of Emily Maxwell and Charles Whitford.

The day was fixed for their marriage, the bridal garments
were already in progress, and the lapse of a couple of weeks
was all that was wanting to realize the prospective happi-
ness of the betrothed pair. Long before this time could pass
away, however, the day of Bryson's proposed entertainment
arrived ; and, punctual to his engagement, "Whitford pre-
sented himself at the appointed hour at Oakfield House,
and was cordially welcomed by its owner.

There were only three persons there, besides Bryson and
Whitford, to partake of the former's hospitality on this occa*
aion. These were two ladies and a gentleman — total strangers
to Whitford. The former were introduced to the Doctor,
by their host, as Miss Harriet Williamson and Miss Rachael
Carfrae ; the gentleman as a Mr Irvine. The ladies were
both splendidly attired — Whitford thought, however, rather
gaudily than elegantly — but there was a something in the
manner and language of both that seemed greatly at variance
with the richness of their apparel. In the former, there was a
bold and indecorous levity, and in the latter a coarseness and
vulgarity that both surprised and disgusted Whitford. Nor
did he see more to approve of in the manners of the gentleman;
for he also presented a similar contradiction with appearances.
Nevertheless, the little party gradually became a very merry
one. The bottle circulated freely ; and, in the general
feeling of happiness that apparently prevailed, the repulsive
manners of the two fair guests — we speak by courtesy — was
either forgotten or overlooked by Whitford, and he got into
exuberant spirits. These being seemingly shared in by the
other guests, the mirth of the little party gradually became
somewhat noisy and boisterous. Songs were sung, stories
were told, and practical jokes of various kinds were occa-
sionally added to give a zest to the entertainment ; and, in
all this, Whitford — who was naturally of a lively and humor-
ous disposition, and who was, moreover, at this particular
moment, as the reader may conceive, under the influence of
feelings eminently calculated to elevate his spirits — played
a conspicuous part.

At length, when the hilarity of the party seemed to have
attained its height, an amusing idea occurred to their land-
lord, who immediately submitted it to the general opinion.

" I say, my friends," he bawled out from the head of the
table, " I have already told you, I believe, that our worthy
and excellent friend, the doctor here, is about to be married.
Now, my friends, I propose that we should, in the first
place, drink his health, and happiness to him ; and thereafter,
as he has never had, I presume, any practice in acting the
part of bridegroom, that he should rehearse the character, in
order to enable him to go through with it creditably when
he comes to perform it in earnest ; and Miss Williamson
will have no objection, I daresay, for the joke's sake — nay,
the practice may be useful to herself" — (this was said with a
sly look) — " to act the part of bride ; and I will put the
necessary questions to the betrothed couple."

The idea was received with general approbation ; it was

an amusing one, and promised some entertainment, aud aa
Miss Williamson expressed perfect readiness to perform her
part, no time was lost in acting on it. In an instant, the
party leapt from their chairs, and the blushing bride was
conducted by their host to the middle of the floor. With
a good deal of pulling and hauling by Bryson and the other
gentleman, Whitford was also dragged, though, after all, not
very reluctantly, into the middle of the floor, and placed
beside his betrothed.

V Do you," said Bryson, now addressing Whitford, with a
mock gravity of manner and tone, as if performing the part
of a clergyman or person of authority — for the form differed
from the regular and established one — <e accept and acknow-
ledge this lady, in the presence of these witnesses, to be
your wife ?"

" I do, sir," replied Whitford, bowing also gravely, to
humour the joke.

" And do you, madam/' again said Bryson, but now
turning to the lady, "accept of and acknowledge this
gentleman to be your husband ?" The lady replied in the
affirmative, with a low courtesy.

The ceremony concluded, Bryson took the mock bride-
groom by the hand, wished him joy, and complimented him
on the extreme propriety with which he had acted his part.
Having done the same by the bride, the health of the young
couple was proposed and drank with acclamation.

The party having now resumed their seats, the song and
the bottle again went their rounds, until the arrival of the
" wee short hour ayont the twal" gave warning that it was
time to depart. The hint was taken ; the merry little
party broke up, and retired from the scene of festivity.

Willing to cultivate the good understanding which now
subsisted between himself and Bryson, and to shew his
sense of the latter's magnanimity, Whitford called upon him
on the following day, but was informed that he had gone
to Edinburgh with the two ladies — to which place he now
learnt they belonged — having carried them away in his own
gig. Whitford on this occasion asked the serving man — for
Bryson still had such a remnant of his former greatness
about him — when his master would return. The man could
not tell.

Two days afterwards, Whitford again called, but still
with the same success. He repeated his calls at intervals
of two or three days for nearly a fortnight after, but still
Bryson was absent. On the last occasion of his being at
Oakfield, Whitford said, laughingly, to the domestic already
alluded to —

tf I begin to suspect Mr Bryson has made off with one of
these fair ladies, John. Sly rogue ! he has stolen a march on
us. Don't you begin to think so ?" The man shook his
head and smiled significantly, or it might, perhaps, be more
properly called mysteriously, but made no reply. " Why,"
said Whitford, observing the peculiar intelligence of his
looks — " wherefore not ? By the way," he abruptly added,
without waiting for any reply to his remark, " who were
they, these ladies, John?"

It was the first time he had ever thought of making the
inquiry.

" They're gay queer anes, I'm thinkin," replied John ;
" but I ken naething aboot them, sir, and yet that's as
muckle as I wish to ken."

Whitford was struck with the singularity of the answer ;
implying, as it did, that there was something in the character
of the ladies in question, that savoured of the discreditable ;
but, feeling that there would be an indelicacy and impro-
priety in questioning a servant further about the friends or
acquaintances of his master, Whitford, without saying more,
turned on his heel and left the house.

Although his sense of propriety, however, had prevented
the latter from pursuing his inquiries regarding his friend's
late guests, it did not hinder him from thinking of the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

189

matter, nor from being a good deal surprised and perplexed
by the nature of even the little information he had obtained.
But this, and all other thoughts of a similarly irrelevant
character, were quickly banished from the mind of the
happy bridegroom by the near approach of the day of his
marriage ; for time had worn away, and this was now at
hand.

Although Whitford had no idea whatever of the present
place of location of his quondam rival, we are not in the
same state of ignorance on this subject. We know that he
was residing in hired lodgings in Edinburgh ; and if at this
instant we look in upon him, to see what he is about, we
shall find him in the act of reading the following letter
which has just been put into his hands. It was dated from
Spring Yale.

" HONOURED SIR, — Matters are going on here bravely.
Every room in the house is filled with mantua-makers and
wedding things, and the doctor is here every day, sometimes
three times a-day, and he and Miss Emily are constantly
walking alone together, both of them, in the garden ; but I
have not yet been able to learn the precise day on which
the marriage takes place, but shall not fail to find it out in
time to give you sufficient warning, and will write off to
you directly — Yours to command,

" THOMAS HORNER."

Such was the letter which Bryson was in the act of per-
using at the moment we again introduce him to the reader ;
and we may as well say at once who was the writer. That
person was Captain Maxwell's valet, whom Bryson had
bribed to give him the information which he now in part
communicated, and in part promised. On completing the
perusal of the document we have just quoted—

" Exactly so," muttered Bryson to himself — ic matters are
going on merrily, it seems ; but I'll bring them all up with
a short pull, or my name's not what it is — ay, curse me,
although it should be at the expense of my last guinea.
The ninny's hooked. Let him escape if he can." Saying
this, he folded up the letter, placed it in his pocketbook,
and walked about the room in deep meditation. Having
thus employed himself for some time, he suddenly stopped,
placed himself at a table, drew some writing materials
which lay on it towards him, and wrote the following note : —

" HARRIET, — I have this moment received notice of the
progress of affairs at Spring Vale. They are fast coming to
a crisis. Hold yourself in readiness to start at a moment's
notice, and desire Rachel to be also prepared. I don't
think there's any occasion for Irvine making his appearance
in the matter in the first instance."

The writer having signed (with his initials only) and
sealed this note, despatched it by a porter to its destination,
which was somewhere in the Canongate. In less than a
tveek after this, Bryson received another letter from his
correspondent at Spring Yale. Of this second epistle we
deem it enough to communicate the purport, without giving
a verbatim quotation, as in the former instance. This pur-
port, then, was to inform Bryson that the marriage of Emily
Maxwell and Charles Whitford was to take place on the
second day thereafter, at five o'clock in the evening ; and
that the ceremony was to be performed at Spring Yale.
On reading this letter, Bryson hurriedly exchanged his
dressing gown for his coat, put on his hat, and hastened
out of his lodgings ; and at this point we will leave him for
a time, and return to Spring Yale. Here all was bustle and
confusion ; but it was of a joyous kind. It was the bustle
and confusion attendant on the preparations for Emily's
marriage, and for the entertainment of the very large party
that had been invited to witness the ceremony which was
to take place on the afternoon of the day of which we speak.
Of all those who rejoiced on this happy occasion, there was
none more happy than the bride's father. He had arrayed
himself, on this auspicious day, in tLe full uniform of his

professional rank — a dress which he had not worn for many
years previously, but which he had always kept carefully
past him for great occasions. The house, too, was filled
with near relatives, and, amongst these, youngsters of both
sexes, who kept up a hilarious din during the whole of the
wedding day. Every face was lighted up with joy, and every
bosom filled with gladness. In short, a more thoroughly
happy set, or a merrier house, was not within the bounds
of the British ^ dominions, than was Spring Vale and its
inmates on this joyous occasion.

" Well, my lad," said the captain, speaking, in the exuber-
ance of his spirits, to the bridegroom, who had made a
forenoon visit, on some subject connected with the impend-
ing event—" don't you repent yet, eh ? Time enough still,
Charlie, though nothing more. Sharp's the word now, my
lad, if you think of cutting your cable and running for it.
Emily," went on the Captain, but now addressing his
daughter, who had at this moment entered the room.
" Charlie has grown a wise man all at once. The proof of
which is, he says he won't have you. He has thought better
of it, and is determined to keep his head out of the noose.
What say you to that, Emily, eh ?" But, ere the worthy
Captain could obtain any reply to his sufficiently flat, but
well-enough-meant jokes, a rush of visiters filled the room,
when both bride and bridegroom, as if simultaneously influ-
enced by the same feelings, took advantage of the momentary
confusion, and stole out of the apartment.

In the meantime, the day wore on. One, two, three
o'clock came, and passed away ; and when five had arrived,
it found the marriage guests all assembled in one, the largest
apartment in the house. In a few minutes after, the slender
and elegant form of the blushing bride, arrayed in spotless
white, stood in the centre of the room, and by her side the
youthful form of the man of her choice. In front of the
young pair stood the venerable clergyman of the parish, in
the act of delivering the prefatory prayer — the whole
being surrounded by a deeply-interested auditory of relatives
and friends. At this moment, just as the prayer was con-
cluded, and the clergyman about to unite the hands of the
betrothed couple, the door of the apartment was suddenly
thrown open and James Bryson entered. The singular and
untimeous visit instantly arrested the proceedings of the
clergyman, who, knowing of the intruder's former preten-
sions to the hand of the bride, looked with amazement on
his appearance at such an unseasonable moment — an amaze-
ment which was shared by many others of the party, from
a similar knowledge. Heedless, however, of the looks which
told of this feeling, Bryson advanced with undaunted front
towards the clergyman, and said, emphatically, but briefly,
at the same time laying his hand upon the arm of the
latter —

" Sir, I forbid this marriage."

Confounded by this extraordinary conduct, it was some
time before any one could reply to the strangely timed
interdict, or inquire into its meaning. At length, when
his surprise had a little subsided —

" You forbid this marriage, sir !" said the clergyman.
" What do you mean ? On what grounds, sir, do you
forbid it ?"

" On sufficiently good grounds, sir, as you will yourself
allow, I dare say, when you have been informed of them.
That man, there, sir," pointing to the bridegroom, "is already
married !"

Every countenance in the apartment became pale with
consternation at this dreadful assertion. The bride fainted
in the arms of her maid, and confusion and dismay pervaded
the whole party.

" Married, sir !" exclaimed the clergyman, as soon as his
amazement would allow him to speak — " married ? — when,
and to whom ?"
! " 7 married, Bryson !" repeated the bridegroom, here

190

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

interposing, and confounded, as he well might be, at the
extraordinary declaration. " What do you mean ? You
are mad, sir, or something worse. How have you dared,
sir, to come here at such a moment as this with such a
ridiculous and infamous falsehood in your mouth ? If a jest,
it is a very ill-timed and a very impertinent one."

" Oh, no jest at all, sir, I assure you ; and you yourself
know it," replied Bryson, coolly, and with a malignant smile
of triumph on his countenance. " It is but too true, sir ;
and I can prove it."

" Sir/' said the clergyman, here interfering, and laying
his hand on Bryson's arm, " in the name of Him who is
all truth, tell us at once what you mean. Explain this
mysterious business."

" I have no further explanation to give, sir, than simply
again to assert, that that gentleman is already married, and
that I am ready this instant to prove it."

" Will you not tell us, then," said the clergyman, " if
he be married, when, where, and by whom the ceremony
was performed ?"

" Oh, surely, sir," replied Bryson, with undiminished
confidence. " The ceremony, sir, was a very simple one ;
but sufficiently binding by the Scotch law. It was per-
formed in my house three weeks since, and was the volun-
tary act of Mr Whitford himself. On the occasion to
which I allude, he declared the lady who now claims him
for her husband, his wife, in the presence of witnesses ; and
that, I need not repeat, as you are, of course, perfectly
aware of it, is quite valid by the laws of this country. Mr
Whitford," he added, bowing to the unhappy bridegroom,
" will himself, I am very sure, acknowledge the truth of all
that I have said."

" Heed him not, heed him not," exclaimed poor Whit-
ford, frantically. " It was all in jest, all in jest, and the vil-
lain knows it. What have I to do with the woman, or
what has she to do with me ? I know nothing about her.
I never saw her in my life before that night, and have
never seen her since."

Bryson smiled significantly during the delivery of this
vehement but vain disclaimer.

" But, Mr Whitford," said the clergyman, seriously,
" did such an occurrence as this really take place ? Were
you so unguarded as to make such an acknowledgment as
that mentioned by Mr Bryson?"

" I certainly did, sir," replied Whitford ; " but I repeat
again, it was all in jest. We were all making merry, and
that was one of the jokes of the evening."

The clergyman shook his head, and looked greatly distressed.
" Jest, truly !" here interposed Bryson ; " a pretty law
that would be that any man could evade by declaring
that he was only in jest ! That would be a very nice state
of matters, indeed ! No, no, Mr Whitford, the law recog-
nises neither jokes nor jokers. It has no relish whatever
for them, and that you'll find, I rather think."

" Indeed, this matter is serious," said the clergyman,
gravely. " But where, sir," he added, addressing Bryson,
" is this proof you speak about ? We cannot take your
simple assertion in such a case as this."

" The proof is at hand, sir/' replied the latter. And he
went to one of the windows of the apartment, threw it up,
and called aloud — " Mrs Whitford, come this way, if you
please ; you are wanted — and you too, Rachael. Come
both of you up stairs." In an instant after, these parties
were in the room, the former covering her face with her
handkerchief, so as to conceal nearly all her features, and
to give the appearance of one in confusion and distress

On their entrance — " Harriet," said Bryson, " do not you
claim this gentleman," here inclining his head towards
Whitford, " as your husband ? Did he not avow himself
such in the presence of Rachael here, of myself, and of a
third party?"

Harriet modestly replied, from behind her handkerchief,

Yes."

" In my house ?"

Another affirmative.

"You were witness to it, Miss Rachael?" continued
Bryson, now addressing the other female.

'' I was," said the former ; " and poor Harriet's been in a
sad condition ever since that Mr Whitford never looked
near her ; but she was letting him alane, to see if he would
:ome to her of his ain accord, which would hae been bettei
'or a' parties than takin' steps against him. Indeed, I was
rvitness till't," she concluded with emphasis.

" And so was I," added Bryson. " Now, sir, are you
satisfied ?" he said, addressing the clergyman.

" It's a conspiracy — a black, a villanous conspiracy to
ruin me, to blast my happiness !" exclaimed Whitford, dis-
ractedly. " What law on earth so ridiculously absurd, so
lorribly cruel, as to hold me bound in such a case as this ?
Monstrous ! incredible ! There can be no such law. Mr
Thomson," he added, addressing the clergyman, "proceed
with the ceremony, sir, if you please. Where is Emily ?
Bring in Emily. And you, sir, ' he went on, turning tr>
Bryson, " quit this house instantly, and take these women
with you. I think I know — nay, I'm sure I know — but
will not in the presence of this company say what they are."

" Oh, surely, Mr Whitford — surely, we shall retire. We
are very unwelcome intruders, I dare say. But Mr Thomson,
I have no doubt, knows better than to proceed now with
the ceremony of your marriage to Emily Maxwell. If he
does, it will be at his and your peril. He knows what would
be the consequences."

" What consequences, sir ?" exclaimed Whitford, fiercely.
" Why," replied Bryson, calmly, " the consequences
would be simply these : — that I would have you prosecuted
for bigamy, and transported as a felon beyond seas, and Mr
Thomson there dismissed from the ministry, and probably
sent along with you — that's all." And, without waiting for
any reply, he flung out of the apartment, followed by his
two female friends, and instantly left the house.

We have hitherto refrained from interrupting our nar-
rative, by any attempt to describe the feelings of those present
during this extraordinary scene. Nor is it our intention,
now, to take up the reader's time with any such digression.
We prefer leaving him to conceive what these were, in his
own mind. Neither have we anything to describe as
to their conduct on this singular occasion — both being
sufficiently delineated by the simple truth, that they all re-
mained in mute astonishment, during the progress of the
circumstances we have just recorded. Not one spoke, or
in any way interfered in the extraordinary proceedings ; but
looked on and listened in bewildered amazement. They, in
truth, knew not what to say or to think of the matter before
them ; and in the same predicament, in this respect, with the
others, stood the bride's father ; next to the bridegroom, of
course, the most interested person in the room. Yet he
said nothing, but looked on in the same speechless amaze-
ment with the others. On the departure of Bryson and his
ladies, the miserable bridegroom — his countenance pale as
death, and his lips white and quivering with mental agony—
again addressed the clergyman —

" You will, doubtless, go on with the ceremony, sir — you
will not, of course, allow this abominable attempt, this
wretched farce, to interrupt the discharge of your duty ?"

" My young friend," said Mr Thomson, taking Whitford
affectionately by the hand, " I am sorry, sincerely sorry, to
say that I cannot go on with your marriage under these most
extraordinary and most distressing circumstances. I have
no doubt whatever, that you have been the victim of a con-
spiracy ; yet we have no proof of this, and these people will,
I fear, swear to anything to gain their purposes. The
.fellow, therefore, has said truly, that to proceed with the

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

191

marriage, would be the inevitable ruin of us both — ay, and
of poor Emily too."

" Gracious heaven !" exclaimed Whitford, In dreadfu
agitation, " is it then, indeed, thus ? Am I ruined and
undone ? Is Emily, after all, never to be mine ? Is the
cup of happiness to be thus dashed from my lips, at the
moment I was about to taste of it ? It cannot be — it can-
not be! I will surely get justice somewhere. It is impossible
that such a preposterous and barbarous law as this can be
in existence, or if it is, that it will be enforced in such a
case as this." Thus did the unhappy young man deplore
the extraordinary event which had thus so suddenly plunged
him from the utmost height of human felicity to the lowest
depths of its misery. Those who were around him, and
particularly theclergyman, didall they could to console him —
for all, as well as the latter, believed that he was the victim of
a deep and most nefarious design — by suggesting that matters
might not be so bad as they appeared, and that some way
might be found of evading the effects of the unguarded pro-
ceeding in which he had involved himself.

But where was Emily all this while ? and what were her
feelings on this dreadful occasion ?

Immediately after the extraordinary announcement made
by Bryson, and the consequent interruption of the marriage
ceremony, Emily was hurried away to her own apartment,
that she might not be further agitated by the impending
disclosures of Bryson, nor be subjected to the pain of
witnessing the progress of the distressing scene whose open-
ing had so much affected her.

" It is all true, then 1" said the unhappy girl, as she lay,
in great mental anguish, reclining on a couch in her own
chamber. " It is all true, then !" she said, gasping for breath
as she spoke, when she saw two or three of her female friends,
with sad countenances, enter her room at the end of about
half an hour after she herself had been removed from the
apartment where the marriage ceremony was to have been
performed. " But no, no ! — it cannot be ; Charles could not
have so cruelly deceived me." (She did not yet know the true
state of the case.) " He could not — he is incapable of it.
It must be some dreadful mistake. Tell me, for mercy's
sake, tell me all !" she exclaimed wildly. " Let me know
the worst at once."

Her request was immediately complied with. When
she fully comprehended the nature of Whitford's situation —
"Thank God, thank God!" she said — "Charles' honour
and truth are unstained. I knew it must have been so ;
and, oh, how I rejoice in it, although he may now never be
mine I" And she burst into a flood of tears, which was soon
after succeeded by an attack of illness that compelled her
to retire to bed.

As it was not thought advisable by the friends of the
young couple, that they should see each other again that
night, Charles was escorted home to his lodgings by a party
of his friends, who, after soothing him as much as they
could, left him for the night with the promise of waiting on
him early next day, for the purpose of consulting with him
as to whether anything could be done to relieve him from
the consequences of his imprudence. On the following day,
every possible inquiry was made on the extraordinary
subject. An agent in Edinburgh was applied to ; and a
detail of the circumstances having been furnished to him,
he laid a memorial before counsel, for the purpose of being
instructed on the best plan for his client to follow, in endea-
vouring to get out of the difficulty in which he had, by the
wiles of an insidious enemy, been placed. The answer
returned by counsel was just what might have been expectec
—viz., that, while consent alone is sufficient to constitute a
marriage, that consent must be seriously and deliberately
given, and not in jest and frolic; but that, as it was a question
of fact, in this case, whether the consent was serious or
jocular, and that question could only be decided by an

xtended probation before the commissioners of Edinburgh,
t was impossible for him to say whether it was a legal
marriage or not, until the fact was ascertained under the
authority of a court. He, at same time, however, added,
that he, as a counsel, believed the whole affair to be a trick,
•md had little doubt, that, under an action of putting to
silence, as it is called, Mr Whitford would get redress and
liberty. Meanwhile, until he was armed with the decision
of a court in his favour, it would not be safe for him, (even
if the parent would consent to it,) to enter into his projected
marriage.

This opinion was communicated to the unhappy young
man, whose finances being entirely unequal to the expense
of a heavy law-suit in the Edinburgh courts, consulted his
intended father-in-law what he ought to do. The captain
offered to assist him with money, to try the point ; but the
pride of the youth rebelled against this measure, while his
;ieart sickened at the thought of having his name made
public as the involuntary husband of an individual of bad
Fame, struggling to free himself from a disgraceful connec-
tion. He saw, too, the difficulties that lay in his way.
False witnesses might, and would, he had no doubt, be pro-
cured by his inveterate enemy; every device would be
fallen upon by cunning agents, to hang up the case for years,
and a counter-action for aliment, (on which arrestments of
his accounts might be used,) would be resorted to against
him, for the purpose of destroying a business so very easily
affected by a bad reputation. All things, therefore, con-
sidered, he conceived it best to trust to the effects of time.
He sold off his little stock, left the country, and went on
board of a man of war, where he had obtained an appoint-
ment, in his professional capacity, through the influence of
Captain Maxwell.

For two entire years after this, little or no communication
took place between Charles Whitford and either Captain Max-
well or his daughter. During the greater part of the time,
he was on a foreign station, from whence opportunities of
corresponding with England were but rare. Nor, indeed,
though they had been more frequent, had he much to say.
He, however, let none slip that did present themselves,
to inform Harriet of his well-being, and to repeat his vows
of unalterable, unchangeable, and unabated love. With
these expressions of an ardent, but apparently hopeless
passion, every letter he wrote was filled.

There are those, however, who, putting little store by the
affections of the heart, when placed in competition with
worldly acquisitions, would have said, that the occurrence
which induced, or rather, perhaps, compelled Whitford to
abandon a country practice for that of the cock-pit was a
fortunate one for him, inasmuch as it had put more money
into his purse in one year than the former would have
done in a dozen. This it certainly had done, in the shape
of prize money. The cruise had been a singularly lucky
one ; and in that luck Charles was, of course, a participator,
But, with very different notions from those of such ways
of thinking as we have alluded to, Whitford did not feel
the acquisition of wealth to be any compensation to him for
the loss of Harriet Maxwell. To him it appeared value-
less ; or, if he did hold it in any estimation, it was as a thing
which had its quality of worth yet to acquire ; and this, in
his opinion, it could do only by being shared with his beloved
Harriet.

At the end of the two years already alluded to, however,
viz. those immediately subsequent to Charles' departure

from the village of , matters had taken a turn in his

favour, of which he was not yet at all aware. The progress
of this change we will mark by shifting the scene to Edin-
burgh.

At the period of our story, now some forty or fifty
years old, there lived in the Lawnmarket of the city just
named a respectable lawyer of the name of Merrylees.

192

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

On this gentleman a dissipated-looking man, of shabby-
genteel appearance, called one morning about the end of
the period spoken of.

Being introduced to Mr Merrylees —

" Hadn't you, sir," said the visiter, " a client of the name
of Harriet Williamson, alias Mrs Whitford ?"

" Yes, sir, I have," replied Mr Merrylees. " I was
employed in her behalf by a Mr Bryson, to prosecute her
husband, Whitford, for a separate maintenance ; but he's
cut and run, and there's nothing to be had."

" Exactly," replied the stranger, who, we may as well
inform the reader at once, was no other than Irvine, whom
the former will recollect to have been one of the witnesses to
the scene at Oakfield. " Exactly, sir," he said. " Well, sir,
Harriet is dead."

"Dead ! is she ?" replied Mr Merrylees, with some sur-
prise. " Indeed ! — when did she die ?"

" This forenoon, sir." There was a pause ; when Irvine
added— " Perhaps you don't know all about that business,
sir ?"

" What business ?" inquired Mr Merrylees.

" Harriet's marriage," replied Irvine.

" Why, I don't know. I certainly know nothing more
about it than what Mr Bryson told me, and which he sup-
ported by your own evidence, and Mrs Whitford's, and
another woman's, whose name I forget just now."

" Rachael Carfrae," interposed Irvine.

" Yes, that is the name."

" Well, sir," continued the former, " I didn't wish to
harm Harriet while she was alive, and so kept my thumb
upon things ; but now that she's dead and can't be brought
to any mischief by the matter, I will have my revenge on
that scamp, Bryson, who has used me very badly, by telling
all about the affair.'

" What affair ?" again inquired Mr Merrylees.

'' Why, about Harriet's marriage with Whitford."

" Well, what of it, sir ?"

" It was all a hoax," replied Irvine, laughing — " a air
piece of moonshine on water."

" What do you mean, sir ?" said the astonished lawyer.
" Do you mean to say that there was no marriage ? — that
the woman, Harriet Williamson, was not the wife of Mr
Whitford ?"

" Why, you shall judge of that when I tell you the par-
ticulars of the case." And, without further preface, Irvine
proceeded to give all the details of the conspiracy, of which
Whitford had been the victim. When he had concluded —

" This, if true, is a serious affair — a very serious affair
indeed," said Mr Merrylees. " It is one of the most abomin-
able transactions I ever heard of, and I am sincerely sorry,
indeed, that I ever had anything to do with persons who
could be guilty of such an atrocity. And you, sir, let me
tell you," continued the indignant lawyer, " have made
yourself infamous by being a party to it, and it is only the
consideration of your having done an act of justice, though
tardy, in divulging this detestable conspiracy, that will
restrain me from having you visited with the punishment to
which your participation in the crime has rendered you
liable."

Irvine quailed under the exposition of his own danger,
of which he did not seem to hare been fully aware ; and,
losing all the confidence which had hitherto marked his
conduct, imploringly besought Mr Merrylees not to institute
any proceedings against him.

Mr Merrylees said, in reply, that he had already told
him, in effect, that, in consideration of the information he
had just given, he certainly would not take any steps against
him ; but added, that he expected he would give him. all
the assistance he could in establishing the truth of what he
had just told him ; for the honest lawyer — no rarity, after
all, we hope — was now most desirous of being instrumental

in bringing the affair to light, and procuring redress to the
injured. He, therefore, proposed that Irvine should con-
duct him immediately to the residence of Rachael Carfrae,
the other witness, whom he wished to examine.

With this proposal Irvine readily complied ; and the two
proceeded together to the house in which the woman just
named lived. Being threatened, by Mr Merrylees, with a
criminal prosecution, she confessed all; and so perfectly
coincided with Irvine in her details, as to leave no shadow
of doubt on Mr Merrylees' mind of the entire truth of the
former's information.

Satisfied of this, Mr Merrylees withdrew, after concluding
his examination of the woman Carfrae ; but, before he did
so, he advised both her and Irvine to get out of the way.

" For," he said, " although / will not certainly take any
steps against either of you, yet you must recollect there are
others who may. These are the injured parties, Mr Whit-
ford and Miss Maxwell. You can hardly expect that they
will forgive you the grievous wrong you have done them.''
Having said this, Mr Merrylees left the house.

On the following day, Captain Maxwell received the sub-
joined letter, dated from Edinburgh : — " SIR, — Being aware
of a certain painful occurrence that took place in your
family two years ago, and having since learned all the par-
ticulars of the infamous transaction whence it arose — of
which I beg to remark, by the way, I was ignorant at
the time I undertook the action against Whitford, and,
indeed, until within this hour — I lose no time in informing
you of the death of my late client, Harriet Williamson, who
died yesterday forenoon. This communication I make
merely from an impulse of feeling, and from a belief that
you might not otherwise have very readily heard of the
occurrence of which I now inform you. I need not add,
that, if other circumstances permit, the event which my
late client's pretensions prevented, may now take place,
whenever the parties interested may think fit. Hoping thig
information will afford all the satisfaction which I have flat-
tered myself it is calculated to do, I remain, &c. &c.

"ROBERT MERRYLEES."

" All right, all right yet, by jingo !" shouted out the
captain, in an ecstasy of joy and surprise, when he had read
this most gratifying letter ; and he called out for Emily, and
threw the letter before her. " There, my girl," he said,
" all's right yet — Charlie and you may buckle to when you
like now. The coast is clear."

Emily took up the letter, read it, threw it down, and
rushed out of the room.

" But where is Charlie ? How am I to find the scamp ?"
muttered the captain to himself. " But I'll catch him — I'll
catch him," he immediately after added, "• if he's anywhere
between the two poles." And he sat down and addressed
a letter instantly to a particular friend, one of the clerks
in the Admiralty Office, making the necessary inquiries. In
course of post he had a reply, informing him that the ship
to which Charles Whitford belonged was at that moment
Portsmouth. He was instantly written to. In less
than a week after, Charles was at Spring Vale ; and, ere the
lapse of another, Emily Maxw ell was transformed into Mrs
Whitford. Charles resumed his practice in the village of
; and ultimately obtained all the happiness and pros-

perity which he had so nearly lost.

It may be proper to add, that Bryson absconded imme-
diately on the discovery of his guilt, in order to avoid the
punishment to which he had subjected himself, and never
again appeared in the country.

WILSON'S

, anU

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

MIKE MAXWELL OF GRETNA.

THERE are many individuals who think they are safe if they
act within the strict letter of the law of the land, although
they transgress the precepts of holy writ, as well as the
dictates of their conscience. There is a wide field of right
and wrong, good and evil, within the lines of demarcation
drawn by legislators or moralists ; and as the acts therein
performed are equally removed from punishment and reward,
the merit of the actors is the greater, the less they are
influenced by the hope of praise or the fear of censure. It
\vould, indeed, be as absurd for an individual to say that he
cannot be blamed if he acts within the law, as for another
to allege that he can do no good unless his actions are
blazoned in the columns of a newspaper, after the fashion of
the five-pound donations of dukes and duchesses ; but,
clear as the proposition is, there are many who pretend to
say that it is far from being self-evident. To such mole-
eyed moralists, the best lesson is one derived from a prac-
tical example drawn from life ; and we shall, as public moral
teachers, in our humble sphere, proceed to lay one, not, we
hope, altogether divested of amusement, before our readers.

The remembrance of the strange individual, Michael
Maxwell, who lived, in the end of the last century, in the
village of Gretna, so famed for irregular marriages, is not,
it is supposed, yet extinct. He was the son of a small
farmer, called David Maxwell, who claimed relationship to
the Maxwells of Tinwald ; and having died when Michael
was still young, left him to the care of his mother, without,
however, any means of support. His friends gave him a
little education, and endeavoured to prevail upon him to
learn some trade ; but early habits of roving, and living on
the chance occurrences of the day — perhaps strengthenedby
the continued assistance of his mother's friends, who got
her a small house, with an acre or two of ground, for a
trifling rent, and thus furnished some occasion for his
services (when these could be procured) at home — rendered
all kinds of regular business disagreeable to him.

He became remarkable, as he grew up, for great strength,
strong love of enterprise, and amazing bodily agility, so
that no man in that part of Dumfriesshire could cope with
him at the games of the neighbourhood, or in personal
contest. Of these gifts he was prouder than those who are
possessed of undisputed superiority, in any respect, generally
are ; but he claimed also the possession of other qualities,
which are not often found associated with those we have
mentioned : an adroit cunning, or Scottish sagacity, and
certain powers of humour, on which he plumed himself
iaore than on his bodily strength and agility. In his trials
of strength with the English, whom he loved to vanquish,
he sometimes contrived to bring all those qualities into
operation at once — a feat in which he delighted. Giving
his English vaunting opponent in a wrestling match every
advantage, he allowed him gradually to get more confident
and proud of his anticipated victory, wiled him on to
greater exertions and more impertinent boastings, and, when
he saw him rising on his tiptoe for the last triumphant
throw, laid him on his back like a child, amidst the mirth
and applause of the assembled crowds.
129. VOL. TIL

It was a problem which few of the people about Gretna
even attempted to solve, how Mike Maxwell, as he was
called, lived ; and how he contrived to keep a swift black
mare, always well fed and redd, besides supporting his old
mother, apparently from the proceeds of a small mailing of
ground, formed an addition to the difficulty, and set the
wits of the wiseacres at defiance. Some supposed that he
had a secret intercourse with the smugglers of the Solway,
and that he kept the horse for the purpose of aiding him in
directing the contraband dealers on what part of the coast
to land their commodities ; others again surmised that he
was secretly employed by the village secular marriage priest,
to act as avant courier to runaway couples, whom, by lead-
ing through circuitous roads, he might enable to escape from
their pursuers.

Of all those who speculated on the subject, none felt a
greater interest in the mystery than a young Englishwoman
of the name of Alice Parker, the daughter of a widow who
lived on the English side of the Borders, and with whom
Maxwell had been long on habits of great intimacy not-
withstanding of an indomitable prejudice he entertained
against her country and countrymen. The great leveller
of all distinctions of rank shews little respect for national
prejudices ; the two were devoted to each other, and would
have been united, if he would have complied with her repeated
request, to satisfy her as to the means whereby he main-
tained himself and would maintain her. The condition of
the young woman was reasonable ; and one night, as she was
accompanying him a short way on his road homewards, she
pressed the point with so much force that Maxwell could
scarcely resist an explanation.

" It is not I alone," said she, " who feel a curiosity on
this subject, which, perhaps, you may think only concerns
yourself. The inhabitants of the surrounding country all
know you, in consequence of the fame of your strength ; and
my countrymen of Cumberland, by token of their broken
limbs and dislocated joints, know you in particular, to their
cost. It is to this fame, which you yourself have produced,
that you owe the curiosity that is entertained about your
means of living ; for your maimed enemies would fain make
out that you betake yourself to the highway — a very
convenient and satisfactory way of accounting for the mys-
tery, as it includes an explanation of your object in keeping
Black Bess there, who, as I mention her name, looks about
to chide me for the imputation."

«• Weel may she," answered Maxwell, " for it is a foul
charge ; and if I knew wha originated it, I wad mak the
place o' him it sprang frae (his head) sae dizzy that he
wad be at some loss again to find it. But is it no yersel,
Alice, wha maks the charge, and faithers it on the hail o'
Cumberland, to force me to gie ye an explanation, which,
after a', ye dinnaneed? The mailin I rent frae Laird
Dempster keeps Bess, the kail-yard my mither, and" (smil-
ing, and taking his companion round the neck"> " a man in
love, Alice, needs little meat."

"No one has any chance with yoa, Mike," replied she.
« Your arm lays your foes on the ground, and your Scotch
tongue, made supple by cunning, baffles all attempts to
reach your judgment ; yet you have not succeeded in this
instance, for you tell me in plain terms, that, if I marry you,

194

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

I must live on love. That sounds not well in the land of
roast beef, of which I am as fond as my neighbours; so you
shall be no husband of mine."

"You forget, Alice," said Maxwell, still smiling, "the
three weeks ye lay in bed sick wi' love, when I left ye for
Bridget o' the Glen. Hoo muckle o' yer national dish did
ye eat durin that time ?"

" Again at your Scotch humour !" replied Alice ; " but I
am in earnest. You treat me ill, Mike. "What is your love
to me, if I am denied your confidence ? Yet may I not be
asking poison ? I could not hear that you were a lawless
man, and live a week after I was entrusted with the secret.
Unhappy fate, to love, and be forced, by the mysterious
conduct of my lover, to suspect his honesty !"

" You are on dangerous ground, Alice," said Maxwell.
" We o' the north side o' the Borders, say that love has nae
suspicions, and that whar there are suspicions, there is nae
love. Do ye mean that I should suspect yer love, as
ye do my honesty ?"

" Would to heaven," cried Alice, " there were as little
ground in the one case as in the other ! Here comes a
carriage at full speed ; take Bess to the side of the road."

" Na," cried Mike, with a sudden start, and looking in the
direction of the carriage ; " Bess and I will tak the middle
o' the road. She'll no stay behind a carriage ; she has owre
muckle gentle bluid in her veins."

The carriage came up with great speed ; the blinds were
up, and the route was to Gretna.

" Guid nicht, Alice," cried Mike, as he flung himself
suddenly on the back of Bess, and bounded off immediately
behind the flying carriage.

The young woman stood and looked after her friend with
feelings of surprise; anditwassomemoments before she became
sufficiently self-possessed to try to account for so abrupt
a departure. Was he angry with her ? His conversation
shewed the reverse, and his good nature was a prominent
feature of his character. A painful question followed
these thoughts : Was he away after the carriage, to realize
the suspicion she had been communicating to him by the
privilege of love ? It seemed too likely; for he had never left
her before without many endearing expressions of attach-
ment ; and she had observed the sudden change of manner
and look which seemed to be produced by the approaching
vehicle. All the vague reports she had heard concerning
him, came in aid of these suspicious appearances ; and
as she wandered slowly home to Netherwood, where her
mother resided, she sunk into a gloomy train of thoughts,
which shadowed forth, on the dim horizon of futurity, dis-
grace and shame to her lover, and misfortune and death to
herself.

The carriage which Maxwell followed under such un-
favourable appearances, was, as already said, on the route
for Gretna. The speed of the horses, and the loud cracking of
the whip which propelled them, indicated haste ; and the close
blinds told of adventure, secrecy, and love. Maxwell followed
hard ; and just as the vehicle turned to take the direction of
the village, Black Bess and her rider flew past with the
speed of light, and by another path reached the back door of
a small house, where she stopped. Maxwell descended and
tapped lightly at the door.

" David Hoggins," said he, "are you in •?"

" Yes," answered the individual addressed ; " what's
wanted?" And the door was opened by an old man in a
Kilmarnock nightcap.

" There's a couple on the road, David." said Maxwell,
" dootless in search o' you. The night is gettin dark, and
the carriage lights winna tell them north frae south. I'll
wait at the back door till you try and get me engaged
to lead the fugitives out o' danger and the reach o' their
pursuers."

" The auld condition, I fancy," saidDavid — "half and half."

" Lively," answered Mike — " quick ; the row o' the wheeli
makthe village ring. There, they're landed. Awa wi' your
noose, and dinna let me slip through the loop."

" I'm as sure's a hangman," said David, nodding signifi-
cantly, and shutting the door, to proceed to the front of the
house, where his presence was in great request.

Maxwell stood for a considerable time waiting the issue
of his proposal, stroking down occasionally the sleek back
of Bess, and at times muttering somewhat irreverent expres-
sions of impatience against David and his customers. At
last the door opened.

" They dinna need ye," said David ; "Jehu will do their
business, though its clear they're pursued. They're for Ber-
wick, and intend travellin a' nicht. She's a bonny cratur, man ;
sae young and guileless, and yet sae fond o' the wark, that
she wad hae been doin wi' ae witness, to save the time o'
gettin anither. As for him, I can see naethin.o' him for
whiskers, the cause, I fear, o' a' the mischief. It's a Chan-
cery touch, dootless. They're for aff this minute. Five
guineas, Mike — ha ! ha !" (shutting the door.)

" Five guineas," muttered Maxwell, imitating David's
laugh, "and naething for me. Come, Bess, and let us try
what our Scotch cunning may do against English treachery.
It has filled our purse afore, and I dinna see how it should-
na do't again. If they winna hae us as guides, they canna
refuse us (that is, Bess, if your heels keep, as they say, the
spur o' your head,) as followers ; and I hae made as muckle
i' the ae capacity as the ither. Come, lass," (throwing him-
self in the saddle, and clapping her sleek neck as she
tossed her head in the air,) " come — hark ! the wheels
row — awa — but whip or spur — awa — we'll try baith their
mettle and metal."

As he finished these words, he dashed down the lane,
the foot of which he reached just as the carriage containing
the buckled lovers passed at the top of the speed of their
spurred horses. It was clear they were afraid of pursuit,
and were hastening on to Berwick to take shipping for
the Continent, the usual retreat of all runaway lovers
passing through Gretna. Confiding in the abilities of
Bess, Mike allowed the carriage to proceed onwards for
half a mile before he took seriously the road, as he did not
wish to be observed following it so near to the village. He
kept moving in the middle of the road, reining in Bess, who,
having been gratified by the noise of the carriage wheels,
pricked up her ears, pawed the ground, and capered from
side to side. Roused by the sound of a strange voice, he
started and turned round.

" You've time yet, man," cried Giles Baldwin, a Cumber-
land man, whose arm Mike had broken at a wrestling match
the year before, and whose suit to Alice Parker he had
strangled by her consent. " But her going's like a Scots-
man running from an Englishman over the Borders. Were
my arm whole, I'd lead Bess's head to the follow. Away,
man, or the booty's lost, like the field o' Flodden, before it
is won."

" Ye've anither arm to brak, Giles," said Mike, in a low
voice. " A craven has nae richt to be impudent till a' his
banes are cracked, and then, like the serpent, he may bend
and spit his venom. I'll see ye at the next match at Car-
lisle, and let ye feel the strength o' the grip o' friendship
and kind remembrance. Tell Alice, as ye pass Netherwood,
that I'm awa after a carriage, to shew a couple the way to
Berwick. Marriages beget marriages, they say ; and she'll
maybe tak ye, to be neebor like, and to get quit o' me,
against whom ye hae tried to poison her ear."

Saying these words, Mike bounded away ; and gave the
Cumberland man no opportunity of replying, otherwise
than by bawling out some further impertinence about his
successful rival's expectation of booty from the expedition
in which he was engaged.

" If I had been to t>ut mysel within the reach o' the

arm o' the law,** muttered Mike to himself, as he moved
rapidly along, " this man's impudence micht hae cared
me and saved me ; but, thanks to Lewie Threshum, the
writer o' Dumfries, I ken what I'm about. I can wring a
man, in wrestling, to within an inch o' his life ; and cut so
close by an act o' parliament, that the leaves o't move by
the wind o' my flight. Nae fiscal dare speak to me, sae
lang as my Scotch cunning does justice to Threshum's
counsel, and my armdefends me against a'ithers. Stretch on,
guid Bess, and let me hae twa words \vi' the happy couple."

The spirited animal increased her speed, and, in a short
time, approached the carriage, which continued to whirl
along with great rapidity. A series of quick bounds
brought Mike alongside of it. He now saw that the blinds
were still up, and the driver so intent upon propelling his
horses forward, that he did not know that any one was in
pursuit ; while the noise of the vehicle prevented the
possibility of hearing the soft clattering of Bess's heels.
Taking the point of his whip, Mike gave a slight and
knowing tap on the carriage blind, like the announcement
of an expected lover. A noise, as of sudden fright and
agitation, followed from within.

" A's richt," muttered Mike to himself.

But the blinds were still kept up. He paced on a little
further, and seeing that no answer was returned to his
application, repeated the rap a little louder than before.

" Who's there ?" cried a rough voice.

" A friend," answered Mike.

" "What is your name ?" said the other, evidently in
agitation.

" I never gie my name through closed doors," answered
Mike ; " and, sae lang as ane acts within the law, there's
nae use for imitatin the ways o' jail birds. My name,
hor/ever, is no unlike your lady's maiden ane — an admission
I n,ak through sheer courtesy and guid manners, and
respect for her worthy faither."

The blind was taken down hurriedly, and a face covered
with a great profusion of curly black hair presented itself.
Mike drew down his hat, so as to cover his face, and, clap-
ping Bess on the neck, paced along at great ease. After
trying to scan his countenance, the gentleman seemed at a
great loss.

" What is it, sir, that you wish with me?" said he ; " or
what is your object in thus disturbing peaceable travellers
by legal turnpikes ?"

" I beg your pardon," replied Mike. " The night is
dark, and the road lonely ; I thought ye might hae wished
a companion — sma' thanks for my courtesy. The gentle-
men in the carriage that's comin up behind, at a speed
greater than yours, ken better what is due to Scotch
civility. I accompanied them a space, and enjoyed their
conversation. They're in search o' twa Gretna fugitives,
and wished me to assist them in the pursuit. I'm sorry I
left them, seein I hae foregathered wi' ithers, wha dinna
appreciate fully my motives. I think I canna do better
than ask Bess to slacken her pace, and bring me again to
the enjoyment o' their society and conversation."

A suppressed scream, from a female within, followed
this speech. The gentleman withdrew his head, to assist
the lady ; the coachman looked round, and was inclined to
halt ; but the words " Drive on !" rang in his ears, and he
obeyed. Mike kept calmly his course, clapping Bess's
neck occasionally, and pretending not to notice the agitation
and confusion within the carriage, where it seemed as if
the lady had gone off in a faint. After some time, the
same whiskered face appeared at the carriage window.

" Hark ye, friend," said he, in an agitated tone ; " you're
a Scotchman, I presume, and must be up, as we say in
London. What would you take to put the gentlemen in
the other carriage off the scent ?"

" What scent ?" asked Mike, gravely.

195

" The scent of the couple they're after," said the other.
" Could you not stimulate their noses with a red herring
drag ? Don't understand me ? Hey, man, quick ! What
say ye ?"

" I understand ye," answered Mike, " mair easily than I
can assist ye, I fear. The hounds ken their track owre
weel. They're for Berwick direct ; but a Scotchman
might maybe send them scamperin to Newcastle — I mean
that is possible, barely possible."

" Well, well !— what say ye ?" replied the other. " Name
your sum. Come, quick"!""

" Let me see/' said Mike j " by returnin, I may lose
the market — a dead loss o' twenty pound, at least. Gia
me that, an' I'll answer for their being twenty miles on
their way to Newcastle, by the time ye're twenty miles on
to Berwick."

" Here, here, then," said the gentleman, holding out hi*
hand.

Mike met him half way, and received a handful oJ
guineas, amounting, at any rate, to twenty.

" Keep yersel and the braw leddy easy," said he, as he
put the money into his pocket. " Drive on, my lad," (to
the driver,) " and, if ye keep off the Newcastle road, ye'll no
fa' into the hands o' the chancellor."

With these words, Mike drew up Bess's head, turned,
and sauntered slowly back to Gretna, gratifying his 1m-
mour by a few words of soliloquy.

" But whar is the coach, wi' its contents, I was to send
on to Newcastle ? A principle o' honesty I hae aboot me
maks me almost wish for an opportunity o' fulfillin my
promise ; but a' I undertook to insure was safety, an' il
they hae safety ony way, they get value for their siller : so,
after a', I'm nae cheat. But here is anither coach drivin at
deil's speed."

<f Hallo ! sirrah !" cries a person from the window ; " met
you a carriage on your way, driving quickly, and with
closed blinds, towards Berwick ?"

" You'll no likely find what ye want atween this and
Berwick," replied Mike. " But I dinna wonder at your
speed ; I could almost wish to flee after her mysel. S \veefc
cratur ! — she maun be fond o' whiskers."

" Then you have met the carriage 1" cried the man, with
great vehemence, quickened by the concluding remark of
Mike. " Quick, quick — tell us where they are, and whither
going. We lose time."

" I lose nane," replied Mike ; " I'm sauntering at ony
rate, thinkin o' my poverty ; ane o' the very warst o' a'
subjects o' mortal meditation."

" Will money drag a direct answer from you, sir?" cried
the man.

" No ; but it will draw it out o' me as smoothly as oil,"
replied Mike.

" Here, then," said the other, handing him some — " will
that satisfy you ?"

" Double it," said Mike, " and I'll halve your labour."

The eagerness of the pursuers forced a ready compliance.

" The lady and gentleman you are in quest o'/' said
Mike, " hae changed their minds, and are on to Newcastle.
They gave out Berwick as a decoy — an hour's ridin will
bring ye up to them. But, hark ye ! I have acted honour-
ably by you — you maun do the same by me ; and, therefore,
when ye come up to the fugitives, ye will act discreetly,
and say naething o' your informer. A nod's as guid's a
wink ye ken the rest."

The pursuers took no time to reply, but flew off at full
speed to Newcastle, while Mike sought, at his ease, his
mother's house, at a little distance from Gretna. About two
hours after he arrived, a loud knock came to the door.
Mike himself opened it.

" Is your name Mike Maxwell ?" said a man habited like
a sheriff officer

196

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" It is," said Mike ; " and wha in thae parts doesna ken
me, either by grip or sight ?"

" It's by the first I get my acquaintance o folk," said
the officer, as he seized his prisoner. " I apprehend ye in
the name o' the king, for highway robbery, committed on a
lady and gentleman bound for Berwick."

Maxwell threw himself back, and, freeing himself from
the grasp of the man, laid him, by one blow, at his feet.
His humour was gratified ; and, laughing boisterously, he
lifted the messenger from the ground.

" That was merely for your impudence," said Mike.
" I'm owre confident o' innocence, either to fecht or flee. A
present is nae robbery — they gied me what I got, o' their
ain free-will and accord ; and, if this is the way they tak
to get their gift back again, I can only say that the presents
o' the English to the Scotch are like their blows — weel
returned."

" Then you admit having the property of the lady and
gentleman," said a second officer, who, attended by a con-
current, now came up. " We must search you."

" There's nae occasion for that," said Mike ; " there's the
guineas and the ring."

" But where is the portmanteau and the papers ?" said
the officer, as he took the gold. " Search the house, Jem,
while we hold him ; the hen's no far off when the chicken
whistles."

The man searched the house. Mike looked surprised and
confused, and suspected they had mistaken their man. He
told them he had taken no portmanteau, and expressed
total ignorance of what they meant. The men only laughed
at him; they had got a damning evidence against him
already — the ring, which had carved on it the initials
" C. B.," (Charles Beachum,) the individual who had been
robbed; and they did not require to hesitate an instant
about his apprehension. They, therefore, carried him direct
to Dumfries jail.

Next morning, the news had spread far and wide that
Mike Maxwell had been apprehended for highway robbery ;
he and another individual, unknown, having, on the previous
night, attacked a travelling carriage, knocked down th^
driver, wounded the gentleman, frightened the lady, and
carried off a portmanteau filled with valuable articles, and
particularly many important documents, together with the
gentleman's diamond ring, (which had been found on Max-
well's person,) and other things of great value. On being
examined, Maxwell thought it best to tell (with a slight
exception) the truth ; that he had followed the carriage to
inform the runaway couple that they were pursued, and had
received the money and the ring for undertaking to disap-
point their pursuers. He kept the secret to himself, that when
he got the money he did not know, certainly, that there were
any persons in pursuit, and had therefore obtained it on
false pretences ; but, even with this prudent qualification,
his examination was held to be just as complete an admis-
sion of the highway robbery as any criminal ever uttered,
under the excitement of fear or the promise of pardon. The
great desideratum was the portmanteau, which the robbers
had carried off; and this, by the request of Captain Beachum,
who had left instructions to that effect at the next inn, as
he proceeded onwards, was searched for by many individuals,
under a promise of a very high reward.

About two hours after his examination, Maxwell was told
that a young woman wished to get in to see him. He knew
at once who it was ; and the jailor, who was an old acquaint-
nnce, permitted her to enter.

"The secret that is denied to true love," said Alice, as she
stood before Mike, looking at him sorrowfully and dignifiedly,
" is sometimes told to the king. You hate my country, yet
an Englishwoman would have saved you, if your confidence
had been equal to the love you have expressed for me.
When I asked you how you lived, you told me that a lover

requires little food. How much, Mike Maxwell, does a
prisoner within these walls either require or get ? What
avails your Scottish cunning now, and how much does it
transcend English honesty ? But, thank heaven, I have
made a narrow escape ! What would your strength, your
fair face, and manly bearing, which have made such con-
quests at our country games, have yielded me of pride or
pleasure, if I had been wedded to a robber ? Is it possible
that that word and Mike Maxwell claim kindred ? — that
Alice Parker, who treasured up your image in her bosom as
a sacred thing or a charm against the evil eye, should this
day be doomed to the pain of saying that that hateful word
and the name of her heart's choice are one and the same ?
Miserable hour !"

" Alice," replied Maxwell, " 1 did you injustice. I should
have confided everything to your bosom ; but I didna require
to pollute that pure casket wi' the confidence o' a robber. I
am nae robber — the first man wha said the word was laid in
an instant at my feet, and sae should a' slanderers be served.
I defy Scotland and England to prove Mike Maxwell a
robber."

" The ring you have given up to the sheriff," said Alice,
" is proof against you."

"Ha, Alice," replied Mike, laughing, "rings are danger-
ous things. Was the ane I got frae you, wi' a plait o' that
raven hair in't, a sign o' robbery ?"

" Would to heaven that it had been such a sign !" said
the maiden ; " I would not then have had to lament this
miserable hour, and this dreadful night." (Pausing.) "But
can it be, Mike, that you are so hardened in vice that you
can laugh in a jail ?"

" And why no, my love, if ane is innocent ?" replied Max-
well. " I am indebted for this apprehension to some enemy—
probably my rival, Giles Baldwin — who has got up a story
about a portmanteau that never was stolen ; and my honesty
in confessin that I got the ring frae the gentleman for
puttin the English beagles wha pursued him aff the scent,
has gienthe lee some colour o' truth Conscious as I am o' my
innocence, lam determined to keep up my spirits, laugh at my
enemies till I get out, and then mak game o' their banes, by
giein them. joints whar nature never intended them to be."

" You have often, in playfulness, mocked me, Mike,"
answered she, " and turned the inquiries of my love into
questions to myself, by the force of your Scotch humour ; but
I bear faith that you never told me a lie. Yet when I think of
the mystery of your life, your secrecy, the strange way in
which you left me last night, to make after the carriage, your
admission concerning the ring, and many other circumstances^
I must also admit that my heart is not satisfied. I cannot help
it. Even my love, unbounded as it is, does not enable me to
vanquish a cold feeling, that, like the shivering of an ague,
creeps over my skin. I cannot say I disbelieve you ; but, oh,
what would I not give for proof to still this restless aching
heart!" (Pausing.) " That proof, Mike, I shall have. The
unpretending Englishwoman whose counsel the wily
Scotchman despised, shall now try to redeem the character
of her countrywomen, and shew that love and honesty
are stronger than wiles and secrecy."

" Weel said, heroine Alice," cried Mike, still laughing.
" Ye intend to mak me guilty, to increase the glory o' youi
efforts to save me ; but, thanks to the laws o' our country,
there's nae great merit in savin an innocent man. I defy a'
my faes, and wad prefer a kiss o' my bonny Alice" (clasp-
ing her to his bosom) " to a' her noble endeavours to do
that which innocence itsel will do for her lover."

" We stand at present on a new footing, Mike," said she,
as she struggled to get free, and retired back. "I must have
my proof. Till then, farewell !"

" Noble wench !" said Mike, as she departed. " However
I may dislike her suspicions, I canna but admire her guid-
ness and spirit. But Lewie Threshum will soon blaw awa

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

this cloud, wi' the wind o' the leaves o' Stair or Mackenzie,
and a' will shine bright again on Alice Parker and Mike
Maxwell."

The views and feelings of Alice were very different : she
suspected her lover, and the thought was death to her ; yet
her native nobility of soul urged her to the task of draining
every source of evidence to prove his innocence. She called
on Lewis Threshum, who had undertaken Mike's defence,
and learned from him, what pained her to the uttermost, that
the evidence, so far as it went, was loaded with heavy pre-
sumptions against the prisoner. A letter had been lodged
in the hands of the fiscal, from Captain Beachum, stating
that the robbery was committed at a distance of about ten
miles from Gretna ; that the perpetrators were two ruffians,
mounted on good horses ; that they had taken the port-
manteau filled with valuable papers, and also his purse, con-
taining a balance of twenty- two guineas, and a diamond
ring, marked " C. B. ;" all of which they carried off in the
direction of Gretna. The letter contained authority to the
Lord Advocate to prosecute the perpetrators, and recover
the articles. The ring and guineas, minus two, had been
found on Mike Maxwell, within some hours of the robbery.
Then Giles Baldwin had sworn that he saw Mike Maxwell
in full pursuit after the carriage some short time before the
robbery was committed ; and some other individuals swore
that they saw him return to Gretna some time after, mounted
on his black mare. In addition to all this, was Mike's im-
probable examination, which seemed of itself to be conclu-
sive of the case. This appeared to Alice overpowering,
especially when she added to it what she herself had wit-
nessed— the arrival of the carriage, and the precipitate
retreat of Mike, at a time when it was impossible he could
know that there was (according to his theory) any carriage
coming up in pursuit of the other.

She went home, sad and disconsolate, and passed the
remaining part of the day and the night in the greatest
misery. She revolved in her head various schemes for elicit-
ing something faveurable to her lover ; but the absence of
Captain Beachum, who could alone give any account of the
circumstances attending the alleged robbery, formed a bar to
her inquiries which she could not overleap. As she sat
next evening, musing on the unfortunate current of events
that cast her from the elevation of the pride of one who pos-
sessed the favour of the most proper and comely man of the
Borders, to the shame of the confidential friend and lover of
a robber, who might shortly be hanged, after associating, on
the scaffold, her name with his sorrows — she was roused from
her grief by a tap at the window. She started. It was
Mike's rap, and the very hour at which he generally visited
her. She flew to the window, thinking he had escaped,
and had thus come to communicate the joyful tidings.

" Is it possible ? It is not you Mike ?" she said, lowly.

" No, but it is his friend," said avoiceshe thought she knew.

" What friend ?" said she ; " and with what object does
he call here ?"

" Names have a dangerous odour," said the other, " when
the beagles are out and snuffing every breeze for the scent
of red game. You wish Mike Maxwell well — you visited
him yesterday : would you aid in his escape ?"

" Doubtless," said Alice. " Tell me what I could do to
attain that object honourably."

" Here is the portmanteau," said the ether, " which was
taken from Captain Beachum. If it is sent back to him, he
will give up the prosecution against Mike, as all he wants
is the papers contained in it. Open the window a little till
I rest the end of it on the sill."

Rendered stupid by this statement, Alice obeyed like an
automaton. She lifted up the window. The portmanteau
svas placed within it in an instant.

" Get it sent to Beachum," 8aid the voice. U •' / Joined
Mike in the robbery, and wish him to get 9® "

The window fell from the powerless hands of the thunder-
struck girl, and struck the speaker's hand, which was on the
end of the portmanteau. The blow was a severe one ; he
ran off, and the portmanteau fell down within the house,
where it lay as if it had been placed there by the hands of
a housewife. It was some time before the miserable girl
came back to the consciousness of her true position. The
last words of the voice — " I joined Mike in the robbery, and
wish him to get off"— rung in her ears like a death knell; and
the next moment her eyes fell on the fatal portmanteau — the
very article stolen by her lover — that which was to convict
him, to hang him. She grew frantic, ran to the door, looked
east and west through the shadows of the trees, flew first
one way, then another, called aloud, screamed, and called
again. No one answered. The man was gone. She returned
into the house, where her eyes again met and recoiled from
the damning memorial. Terror now took possession of her
mind. The circumstance of the portmanteau being found
there, would form the only link wanting of the evidence
that would hang her lover. Were she to state how it came
there — concealing the last dreadful words which still haunted
her ear — she would not be believed ; and if she told the
whole truth, including the fatal words, the same result — the
condemnation of her lover — wouldfollow. What therefore was
she to do ? She could not discover it ; but could she conceal
it without danger to herself as well as to him ? It was clear
she could not ; and, besides, her soul abhorred secrecy and
deceit of all kinds.

As she sat in this state of doubt and despair, a noise of
footsteps was heard at the door, with whisperings and broken
ejaculations. A tremor passed over her. They might be
officers of justice come to search the house. A rap sounded
softly on the door, and the whisperings continued. The
portmanteau must, in any view, be concealed in the meantime;
and, until her mind was made up, she flew and seized the
covering of the bed, and hurriedly threw it over the glaring
evidence of her lover's guilt. She had scarcely accomplished
this hasty, but fatal concealment, when the door opened, and
three sheriff officers entered the house and asked her if
Mike Maxwell had left anything to her charge? The
necessity for acting prudently called up her energies. She
stood erect before the men.

" No," she replied — " Mike Maxwell committed nothing
to my charge."

" We have here a warrant for a search, young woman ;
and you will not be annoyed by our putting it to execution."

She was silent, and shook from head to heel. One of the
men drew off the bed-cover, and discovered the object of their
search. Captain Beachum's name was on the top of it.

" So, Mike committed nothing to your charge ?" said the
man, addressing Alice again.

" No," she answered, firmly.

" You can tell that to the sheriff," said the man. " Mean-
time, we take this article along with us."

He threw the portmanteau on his shoulders, and departed
along with the concurrents, leaving the girl fixed to the
floor like a statue.

In a short time after, her mother, who was against Max-
well's suit, and blamed her daughter for having anything to
do with him, entered the house. Alice dared not to make
her mother her confidant ; she was reduced to the necessity
of not only wrestling single-handed with her difficulty, but
of concealing it from her parent. Bedtime came, and she
retired to rest, but slept none. At daybreak she started,
dressed herself, and, without saying one word to her mother,
proceeded to Dumfries to visit Lewis Threshuir On
arriving at his house, she found he was in the prison along
with Maxwell, and waited till he came home. She informed
him truly of everything that had taken place, and saw, from
the effects of her communication, that she was condemning
her lover. Starting up in great agitation, he cried—

198

TALES OF THE BOIlDElla

" Mike's life is in your hands, Alice : will you hang or
save him ?"

" Save him if I can," replied the girl.

" Then you must tell the shirra," said Lewie, " everything
ye've tauld me but the last words uttered by the secret
visiter. These you maun keep in your bosom, and hauld
like grim death, otherwise Mike's a dead man."

" I will speak the truth/' said Alice, calmly.

" Didna you love Mike ?" said the writer, staring at her.

" Yes, but I loved also, and still love, truth and
honesty."

" Idiot cratur !" ejaculated Lewie, stamping with his feet.
" Mike Maxwell is a dead man — Mike Maxwell is a dead
man !" (Pausing and looking at her.) " Will you hide your-
self, then ?"

" No," replied she ; " I do not love secrecy."

" Hang him, then !" cried the infuriated man ; (l hang
him, and then drown yourself, like the rest o' your incon-
sistent sex."

Offended by the violence of Threshum, which resulted,
however, from his wish to save his friend and her lover,
Alice left the room suddenly, and had scarcely got to the
door, when she heard the writer calling after her. At this
moment she was seized by a sheriff officer, and conducted
before the sheriff to be examined. She told the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The fatal words of
the secret visiter — " I joined Mike in the robbery, and wish
him to get off" — were formally recorded, and the deposition
closed. Threshum, finding the necessity of exerting his
best energies to overcome the weight of this overpowering
evidence, called at the office of the fiscal, and demanded, on
behalf of his client, to see the contents of the portmanteau.
This was conceded to him ; and the man of the law, having
examined carefully the papers in presence of the fiscal, and
taken notes of them, departed to turn his information to
the best account he could for his client. He discovered
that the papers belonged to Mr William Anson, merchant
in Bristol, the guardian of the runaway bride, Miss Julia
Anson.

This done, Lewie got hold of Alice before she left
Dumfries, and took her with him to the prisoner, to see if
the efforts of Mike would have any effect upon making her
depart from her intention of adhering to the truth on the
day of trial — the examination she had already undergone
being merely a step in the preparation of the evidence.
When they entered, they found Mike enjoying himself over
some brandy, which the friendship of the jailor had procured
for him. Lewie told him, with a grave face, of the extra-
ordinary circumstances attending the recovery of the port-
manteau, and, in particular, the words uttered by the indi-
vidual who handed it in at the window. Mike remained
unmoved.

" And do ye believe the words o' the ruffian wha thus
hounds me ?" said he to Alice.

" I cannot disbelieve what accords so well with everything
else I have seen," replied she. " Alas ! would that 1 coult
disbelieve them !"

<rBut yell keep them, at least, to yersel, Alice ?"said Mike

" If I could keep my heart to mysel, Mike, I would,"
replied she. " But God does not allow that, and I must
speak the truth. What would you have me to do ?"

" To say naething," replied he.

" Fule, man [" rejoined Lewie; " say naetning ! That
wad hang ye mair certainly than what she has already
said to the fiscal," (to whom she has tauld everything,)
" and intends to repeat at the trial, unless we can, in some
way, prevent it. Say naething, man ! You and she
ire tryin, like the competin millspinners o' Dryden's mill,
which o' ye is best at twistin hemp. If she said naething,
wha wad be presumed to be the depositer o' the portmanteau
'.n the hands o' Alice Parker, the weel-kenned lover o

Mike Maxwell ? Wha but Mike Maxwell himsel ? Could it.
come frae a mair likely hand than that on whase finger the
owner's diamond ring was or micht hae been ? Ye're baith
fules. The lassie should swear, and she maun swear,"
(unless, indeed, she wants to hang ye, which seems to be
the case,) " that the portmanteau was handed in at the
window by a man wha said ye were innocent, and had sent
back the papers to try to save ye."

<f Will ye say that, Alice ?" said Mike.

" I cannot tell a lie, Mike," replied Alice. " I will speak
the truth ; and I would do that if Alice Parker's neclt, in
place of Mike Maxwell's, were in clanger of the rope."

" Incomprehensible wench !" cried Mike. " Is this the
last and strongest proof o' your affection ? Does this agree
wi' the sabbin heart and watery ee o' the greetin Alice,
as she used to hang round my neck amang the green shaws
o' Netherwood, and get me to promise that I never again
wad see May Balfour ? or does it agree wi' my promise,
made on the condition that you wad renounce Giles Baldwin,
wha, I fear, is at the bottom o' a' this affair ? Is it common
for women to agree to marry simple men, and then hang
them ? — to promise them a gowden ring for the marriage
finger, and gie them a hempen ane for the craig ?"

" It is common for women to love," replied Alice, " and
it is too common for women to lie for love ; but the love
that is leagued with the falsehood of the tongue, cannot be
supported by the truth of the heart. No woman ever
loved man as I loved you Mike ; but you are only a man,
and there is a God" (^looking upwards) " to be loved — -ay,
and to be feared. But you say you are innocent ; and
when did white-robed innocence require the piebald, ragged
covering of falsehood, to shew the purity which it covers ?
It were a mockery of the laws of God and man, to swear
falsely to save an innocent man. And, alas ! if you are'guilty,"
(and appearances are sadly against you,) " no falsehood ought
to save you from the injured laws of your country."

" The plain Scotch o' a' this English, Mike," said Lewie,
" is, that the lassie is determined to hang ye, as a repay-
ment for a' the kisses ye were at the trouble to gie her in
the holms o' Netherwood ; and, after ye're dead, she'll sing
" Gilderoy" owre your grave. But, in sober seriousness, she's
an idiot, like a' the rest o' her English friends. A Scotchwoman
wad hae leed through fire and brimstone for her lover ; and,
after she swore the rope aff his neck, placed her saft arms
round his craig, in place o' the hemp. Mercy on me, whar
wad be a' my glory at proofs if folk were to speak the truth ?
My pawkieness, slyness, cunnin, art, and triumph o' the
cross-question, wad be o' nae mair avail than sae muckle
ordinary fair rubbish o' straightforward judgments and
honesty. Keep up your spirits, Mike ; I'll no let her hang
ye. The English man or woman's no born that will hang
Mike Maxwell."

" Are ye resolved, Alice ?" said Mike, approaching her,
and holding out his arms to enfold her.

" I am," replied she, receding. " Clear yourself by the
aid of truth, and there's no haven in this world that could
be dearer to me than these arms. Till then, I am the bride
of sorrow. Farewell !"

And she departed, leaving Lewis Threshum with Max-
well.

" Saw ye ever such a stubborn fule?" said Lewie.

" I never saw sae noble a wench," replied Mike.

" Ha ! ha !" cried the writer. " A pair o' fules ! Ye're
the first man, Mike, I ever heard praise the person that
swears awa his life ; but this nonsense will neither prove
nor pay. We maun set aboot discoverin the mystery o' this
adventure at Alice's window. Ae thing seems to me
perfectly clear ; and that is, that it wasna the robber that
handed'in that portmanteau."

" Hoo do ye mak oot that ?" said Mike.

" You're as simple's the puir English fule," replied

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

199

Lewie. " Wad the man wha took the portmanteau frae
Captain Beachum hae admitted to Alice Parker that he
was the robber ; and, what's mair, wad he hae said that ye
joined him in the robbery — a lee — at the very moment when
he wanted to save ye by returnin the stolen article ?"

"You astonish me, Lewie/' said Mike; " thae things
never occurred to me."

" A lawyer's ee has twa lenses," said Lewie. " The man,
whaever he is, who handed in that pormanteau at Alice
Parker's window, is your enemy, and no the robber. How
he got the portmanteau is a different thing ; but maybe we
may be able to discover that also."

" If my enemy," said Mike, ''• he maun be Giles Bald-
win, the lover o' Alice."

" Ha !" cried Lewie — " there's light there, man. Why
was the portmanteau no taen to yer mother's ? The
question's a curious ane. Baldwin was the likely man to
tak it to Alice's, and the only man wha wad hae tauld the
lover o' his successfu rival, that that rival was the robber.
There's conies i' this hole ; 1 see the marks o' their feet,
and whar will ye find a better terrier than Lewie Threslmm ?
Mair, man. Wha sent the officers to Alice's house ? That
I'll sune discover. Keep up yer spirits, Mike ; and, while
ye try to shake that fause English woman frae yer heart,
I'll try and keep Hangie frae yer craig."

And away Lewie hastened to continue his inquiries.
He went first to the officers who searched for the portman-
teau, and ascertained from them, through the influence of that
heart-aperient whisky, that it was in fact Giles Baldwin who
had told them to go and search the house of Widow Parker.
Lewie next proceeded to Gretna, where he interrogated
Alice more distinctly.

" If ye're determined to speak the truth," said he to the
grieved girl, " ye should tell us the hail truth, as ye did to
the shirra. Did the voice o' the man no strike ye as a kent
ane ?"

" It did," replied Alice ; "but, though I have been trying
to discover whose it resembled, I have not been able to
make anything of it."

" What say ye to Giles Baldwin's ?" said Lewie.

" When you mention it," said Alice, " it does strike me
that the resemblance between the two voices was very great.
But a thought now strikes me : when the man said that Mike
had joined him in the robbery, I let fall the window, which
struck him over the, knuckles a severe blow. The mark
must be on his hand yet. For God's sake, fly to Giles'
house, and see if his hand is hurt. If that is the case, I will
believe that Mike Maxwell is an innocent man."

" Why," said Lewie, looking cunningly into her face.

"Because," said she, "Mike Maxwell never would have
joined Giles Baldwin, his enemy, in a robbery ; and, there-
fore, the statement made to me at the window was a lie ;
and one lie, like a fly in a box of ointment, corrupts the
whole mass of evidence."

"My writing. chamber maun be like a charnel-house,
then," said Lewie ; " but, lassie, you're surely Scotch, wi'
merely an English tongue."

" Sir," said Alice, " I would wish you would hasten to
Giles Baldwin, rather than joke about this serious affair."

" A' my triumph in the law consists in joking when I am
serious," replied Lewie, with a grave face. " Ye wadna
tak my advice when I wanted ye to save yer lover ; and
now I'll no tak yours when ye want me to save him" — (leer-
ing)— " I mean, Alice, just that I'll gang to Giles Baldwin at
my ain time. Will ye swear to his voice and his hand ?"

« If Giles Baldwin's hand," said she, " is cut in such a
way as might have been done by the fall of that window, I
will swear to my perfect belief of his being the man who
handed in the portmanteau."

" Aneugh, aneugh," cried Lewie ; " I kent ye were
cotch ; and now I'll awa to Giles and shak hands wi' him."

Lewie departed, and went away direct to Baldwin's house.
He found Giles at the door, and, holding out his hand,
asked him, in a friendly manner, how he did. Giles
intuitively extended his hand, which, as Lewie seized it,
he observed, was clear1 j peeled along the back, a little
above the- knuckles.

" Ye hae a hard grip, Giles," said the writer. " Is this
the arm that Mike Maxwell broke at the wrestlin match
last year ?" (Looking down at his hand.) " I declare there's
the marks o' Mike's fingers on yer hand yet ! But I'm
sorra ye've gotten into this new scrape, Giles. The craig's
a mair kittle pairt than the arm or the hand, and aften does
penance for the acts o' its restless friend. I'm sorry for
you, Giles."

" What's the matter ?" said Giles. " I need no man's sor-
row, nor money either."

" A man that has been successful in the highway, doesna
need the last," said Lewie ; " but he is in great need o' the
first. It was strange that twa enemies should join thegither
to commit robbery. It's now quite ascertained that you and
Mike Maxwell were the robbers o' Captain Beachum."

" Wha dares say that ?" replied Giles, looking alarmed.

" Alice Parker," said Lewie. " That nicht ye handed
into her Captain Beachum's portmanteau at the window, and
got your hand" (taking hold of it) " hurt by the fa' o' the
sash, (the mark is on't yet — Providence winna let thae marks
heal,) you told her very honestly — but I canna say, Giles,
it was prudent o' ye — at least, I wadna hae dune sae un-
guarded a trick — that Mike Maxwell joined you in the rob-
bery. You then told Jem Anderson, the shirra officer, to
gae and search for the portmanteau in Widow Parker's hoose.
What made ye do that, man ? Couldna ye hae come to me
and gien me three and fourpence for an advice? — The neck o'
a sheep, wi' the head at ae end, and the harrigals at the
ither, is Avorth eighteenpence. Surely the craig o' a man is
worth three and fourpence."

Giles was bewildered by this speech, and appeared like a
man who gets the folds and meshes of a net thrown over
him. He stood and stared at the writer. The great terror
was the charge of robbery, of which he was quite innocent ;
and he was conscious that he had so far convicted himself,
by an unwary statement to that effect made for a certain
purpose to Alice Parker. His mind, occupied by this fear,
let go the apprehension of a discovery of the mere act of
handing in the portmanteau.

" I see no harm in handing in the portmanteau," he said,
irresolutely, his mind still occupied by the major terror ; " a
person finding it on the road might take that way of return-
ing it to the owner, and saving poor Mike. I committed
no robbery."

" Giles Baldwin," said Lewie, " this winna do ; I can
prove that ye hae admitted being a robber. Now, tak yer
choice — admit the truth aboot the portmanteau, (for Idinna
believe ye stole it,) or rin the risk o' a trial for yer life. If
ye refuse me, I'll hae ye apprehended within an hoor."

The scrape into which Giles had got, was evident to him-
self. He saw no way of escaping ; but he was still dogged
and silent.

" Guid day, Mr Baldwin !" said Lewie ; " ye needna try to
flee the country ; I'll hae twa beagles after ye afore ye can
even cut a stick frae that ash to help ye on. Twa hangins
on ae wuddy maks twa pair o' shoon to the hangman, but
only ae ploy to the people."

" Mr Threshum," cried Baldwin, as the writer was going
out, " what do you want?"

" Explain to me a' ye ken aboot the portmanteau," said
Lewie, " and I'll guarantee ye against the wi'ddy: that's
fair."

« I found the portmanteau," said Giles, at last overcome
with fear, " and gave it to Alice Parker to send to the owner,
and save Mike."

200

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" That's no a' true," said Lewie. " If ye wanted to save
Mike, why did ye tell a lee, and say that he was ane o' the
robbers, yoursel bein the other?"

Giles was caught ; he. saw now that he had only one course,
and agreed to sign a paper, setting forth all he knew and
everything he did in relation to the transaction. Lewie sat
down accordingly, and took down his declaration, which,
after it was finished, he signed and authenticated. It bore
that he had a grudge against Mike Maxwell, for having
broken his arm, and taken from him his lover, Alice Parker.
He had heard the suspicions which were afloat in regard
to Mike's mode of living ; and having seen him that night sit-
ting on Black Bess, and looking after the carriage, he suspected
he was after prey. He insulted him in the way mentioned ;
and Mike having retaliated in the way also already set forth,
Giles was wroth against him, and seeing, some time after, a
carriage hastening after the other, he got up behind it, and
rode on with the view of watching the motions of Mike, and
of being enabled to inform upon him, and thus revenge him-
self. After riding for some time, he heard the conversation
between Mike and the gentleman in the carriage, which has
been already detailed; and having proceeded on some distance
farther, to get some whisky at a house where he was ac-
quainted, he noticed, as the carriage swerved to a side, a
portmanteau lying on the ground. He jumped down, and,
taking hold of the article, swung it behind a hedge, and
covered it with leaves and twigs. Some time after, two men
came up and asked him if he had seen a portmanteau. He
denied that he had, and they passed on. Then came two
sheriff officers, who told him that a robbery had been com-
mitted on a lady and gentleman, going to Berwick, whereby
a valuable portmanteau had been taken from the carriage.
This made Giles prick up his ears : he suspected that Mike
had been the robber, and his suspicion was confirmed by
the fact, that he had heard him send the gentlemen in the
second coach to Newcastle, though he knew they were after
the couple that were bound for Berwick — a device resorted to
by Mike, no doubt, for preventing them from coming upon the
robbed couple, and giving information against him when
they had met. Filled with this suspicion, and his desire of
revenge, Giles sent the officers to Mike's house, and after-
wards gave as much evidence against him as he could, consist-
ently with his wish to keep the contents of the portmanteau to
himself. Having gone and examined it next day, he found
nothing in it but papers ; and therefore resolved upon com-
mitting it to the charge of Alice, and then informing the
officers that it was in her custody. To prevent Alice from
telling how it came into her possession, and of course to
leave the presumption open that she had got it from Mike,
he said that Mike had been one of the robbers ; and the
reason why he had said that he himself was the other, was,
that he was personating one of the robbers at the time when
he was speaking to Alice ; and, as he knew that the report
spoke of two robbers, he glided naturally into the statement
he had made to Alice, whom he wished also to prejudice
against his rival. This declaration Giles signed ; and Lewie
came away with it in his pocket very well pleased. He read
it to Alice Parker as he passed along. She was delighted
beyond adequate powers of expression, and only wanted an
explanation of the ring to satisfy her entirely.

"That yell get too," said Lewie. "I hae a' that, cut
and dry ; but the time's no just come yet. Ye maun hae
patience, and I wad recommend to ye to pay some attention
in the meantime to puir Mike, and mak amends for yer
cruelty, in refusin to tell a lee to save the life o' a fellow-
cratur."

" If people were not cruel to themselves," said Alice,
" they would not require any one to commit for them so
heinous a sin.'

Lewie left her, and returned to Dumfries, where he
communicated his success to Mike. Some time afterwards.

the former understood that Captain Beachum had written
from Paris, wishing to avoid a personal appearance in Scot-
land ; but the Lord Advocate wrote him back to say, that,
if he did not appear, he would neither get the criminal
prosecuted, nor receive up his portmanteau and papers. The
captain (leaving his young wife on the continent) accord-
ingly came over to Dumfries, extremely anxious to have the
trial over, and get possession of his papers. As soon as
Threshum knew he was arrived at the Cross Keys, he
waited upon him.

" Captain Beachum," said Lewie, " ye hae committed an
honest man to prison, on a charge o' being the individual
wha robbed ye o' your portmanteau, guineas, and ring.
Wad ye ken him if ye saw him ?"

" No," said the captain ; " but there's proof enough
against him ; he had my ring in his possession, and the
portmanteau was discovered in the house of his sweet-
heart."

" The last part o' the charge gaes for naething," saia
Lewie, "as I can prove to your satisfaction ; and the first
proves nae robbery, but only your munificence in gien a
man a diamond ring, as a luck-penny to a bargain, whereby
ye saved yersel and yer wife frae the vengeance o' Mr
Anson, wha was that nicht followin you wi' a' the speed o'
a guardian's flight after his ward."

" What mean you ?" said the captain.

" Do ye no recollect," said Lewie, " o' gien a man on a
black mare twenty guineas to mak a red herrin drag across
the nose o' Mr Anson ?"

" I do," said the captain ; " but I did not give him the ring."

" I can assure ye that ye did, though," said Lewie.
" Recollect yoursel."

" I'm not inclined to try to recollect my own stupidity,"
said the captain. " It is impossible I could be so foolish as
to give away my diamond ring, either as a present or by
mistake."

" If you're no inclined to do that muckle justice to an
injured man, maybe you'll gie me the papers that belang to
Mr Anson, by virtue o' this letter o' authority." (Taking
out the letter.) " Tak your choice."

u The papers, sir," said the captain, getting frightened,
" are all I want. I care nothing for the prosecution of the
man. It's certainly possible I may have given him the ring by
mistake ; but how do you account for the portmanteau
being in his lover's house ?"

Lewie read to him Giles Baldwin's deposition.

" Then," said the captain, " all the evidence against
Maxwell is the ring ?"

" Naething mair," said Lewie.

" He shall not be hanged for that," said the captain. " I
shall off to the authorities, and inform them that it is very
probable 1 gave the man the ring in the way you mention.
You say nothing of Mr Anson and the papers, you know."

" I canna interfere, luckily," said Lewie.

On the statement of Captain Beachum, Mike was liber-
ated. He afterwards took a farm, married Alice Parker,
whom he admired the more for her love of truth, and lived
with happily for many years ; but he ever lamented the
course of life he had led. He run a great risk of being
hanged, from the curious combination of circumstances that
conspired against him — lost reputation by it, and caused
unspeakable grief to one of the best of women. Hence our
moral : that one is not always safe from the effects of vice,
though he act within the laws.

WILSON'S

, ffroftftfotiftrg, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE INTENDED BRIDEGROOMS.

WHEN we inform the public that they may rely upon the
truth of the following story, which tells a pregnant moral,
and points to the consequences of a vice for which our country
(unfortunately) stands pre-eminent among the nations
of the earth, we have, perhaps, done as much for the cause
of sobriety as could be effected by the proudest triumph of
the moral teacher. The vice of drunkenness is too often
reprobated only for its effects on the moral and physical
health, and the worldly interests of the unhappy votaries
themselves ; but there are evils beyond these, which extend
their influence far and wide throughout society — dissolving
endearing links, entailing misery and death on those who
are nearest and dearest to the deluded victims ; and only
repented of when all is beyond the hope of cure or amend-
ment.

Walter Brown and James Maitland had been intimate
friends from their boyhood. They had gone through the
progressive classes of the grammar school together, and
together had completed their education at the university.
They entered it on the same day, and on the same day left
it. Unlike many of the friendships of youth, however,
that of Brown and Maitland did not terminate with their
educational course ; it continued with unabated warmth
and sincerity after they had entered into the world and
begun to share in its perplexities and troubles. But of
these perplexities and troubles, it must be confessed, neither
of the young men had by any means an undue proportion.
Their fathers were both wealthy, and thus was their way
smoothed to prosperity.

It was about this period — that is, after Brown and Maitland
had entered into the world — that I became acquainted with
them. It was in the year 18 — . This acquaintance soon
ripened into a sincere and cordial friendship. It was impos-
sible it could be otherwise, at least on my part, for they
were both excellent young men ; highly educated and
accomplished ; possessed of first rate abilities, amiable
in their disposition, and of noble and generous natures ; in
short, they were altogether two as fine young fellows as

the city of G could produce. They were both, at this

time, about five-and-twenty years of age. As there were
many points of similarity between them, and many striking
coincidences in various circumstances, so did this sort of
parallel progression continue after they had entered into
life. They fell in love nearly at the same time ; and, after
a courtship of some month or two's continuance — during all
which time they has,1 made confidants of each other, and
faithfully reported progress, from time to time, as they
advanced in their suits — they determined on " popping the
question" on the same day, and, if favourably answered, that
the same day should see them united.

The objects of their choice were both beautiful and ac-
complished girls, and possessed of considerable fortunes. I
knew them intimately, and was perfectly aware of the re-
lationship in which they stood to my two friends ; for I, too,
was made a confidant in this matter, and was occasionally in-
formed by the young men themselves of the progress of their
130. VOL. III.

courtships. This attachment at length came to the usual
crisis where the course of true love does run smooth. The
lovers declared themselves, and were accepted with the full
and free consent of all interested. The matches were
thought highly eligible on all sides. I have already
said that my friends had agreed to " propose" on the same
day ; nay, they reduced this understanding, as nearly as
they possibly could, to the same hour. To this arrangement
I was made privy ; and it was agreed amongst us that they
should meet in my room immediately after the important
interview had taken place, and then and there announce to
each other the results of their respective overtures. The
hour of meeting at my apartments was fixed for eight
o'clock in the evening ; and at six the lovers repaired
to their mistresses. Feeling deeply interested in the pro-
ceedings of my friends on this eventful night, it was with
no little impatience and anxiety I waited for their appear,
ance as the hour of eight approached. I tried to beguile the
time by reading, but it would not do ; the intense curiosity
I felt as to the results of the affair on the tapis with my
friends, prevented me applying my mind to anything but
wandering speculations on the deeply interesting matter
in which they were engaged. While I was thus employed,
the appointed hour struck ; and, in a few minutes after, I
heard a rapid foot on the stair. I knew it to be either
Maitland or Brown ; and I augured well for the happiness
of the party, whichever of them it was, from the lightness and
vivacity of his footsteps. I was right in my conjecture as
to the coming visiter : in a second after, Maitland, with a
face radiant with joy, and with a loud expression of exulta-
tion, burst into my room.

" Ah ! ha ! Bob," said I, stretching out my hand to him,
" I see I may wish you joy. You need not say a \vord on
the subject ; your looks tell the happy tale."

" Right, right, Tom," replied Maitland, seizing my hand
with wild glee ; " I am a happy man. It's all settled with
father and all. But what's become of Brown ? I hope,
poor fellow, he's been as successful as I have been ; it
would lessen my happiness greatly if he wasn't."

The words were scarcely out of Maitland's mouth, when
Brown also burst into the apartment ; and his countenance
also told a tale of success. He was in exuberant spirits ;
and a furious shaking of hands and noisy interchange of
congratulation marked the felicity of the trio ; for I, too,
rejoiced by sympathy in the happiness of my friends ; and,
though not personally interested in the events of the evening,
was scarcely less obstreperous in my glee.

It was now proposed, I think by Brown, that we should
instanter adjourn to a certain well-known tavern in the
city, arid conclude the joyous evening by a supper. I, for
some time, stoutly resisted this proposal, insisting that they
should remain where they were, and sup with me. Would
to God they had complied l^for, had they done so, the
fearful scene which afterwards occurred would not have
taken place. But it was otherwise ordered. My friends
would not listen to my proposal of their remaining with me ;
and threatened, jocularly, that, if I did not accompany them
of my own accord, they would carry me by force.

202

TALES OF THE BO1IDEKS.

" You must come and sup with us, Tom/'^said Maitland ;
'you must; so don't compel us to use violence. Why,
man, we're such happy dogs to-night, that no man can with
safety deny us anything."

Seeing it useless to make any further objections or resist-
ance, I at length consented to accompany them; and away,
accordingly, we went in high spirits to the tavern alluded
to. Supper was ordered and dispatched. A bottle of wine
followed, then another, and another, till it became evident,
in the course of a few hours, that we had attained a crisis,
and could not possibly hold out much longer. We were
all, in short, very tipsy ; and our mirth, partaking, of course,
of the character of our condition, was noisy and outrageous.
Feeling, at length, that we had reached a consummation, and
aware that the hour was late, (it might be about two o'clock
in the morning,) we arose, paid our reckoning, and left the
house. On gaining the street, we gave full swing to the ex-
citation which a sense of propriety had kept somewhat under
while we remained in the tavern, and shouted and sang as
other fools do in similar circumstances ; that is, when
labouring under the insanity of intemperance. In this
way, we came noisily and joyously along, until we arrived
in front of the house in which Maitland lived. It was his
father's, and lay directly in our way.

"Now, my friends," said Maitland, as we were about to
bid him good night, " we will not part yet. My father is
not at home, and there's nobody in the house but an old
woman ; so you'll just go up with me, and we'll have one
single tumbler before we part. I'll promise you a glass of
as fine old rum as ever came from Jamaica."

This proposal I met with a decided negative. Not so
Brown : he at once closed with it.

" Faith, we shall, we shall, Bob," he said ; " we'll have
one tumbler of your old stingo. Our bachelor days are
nearly at a close now, and we'll see them merrily out."

Saying this, he seized me by the collar on one side, while
Maitland did the same by the other ; and thus was I forcibly
dragged into the house. I determined, however, to drink
no more, but to wait patiently till my friends should think
fit to close the scene of their own accord. The old house-
keeper having been roused from her bed, tumblers, glasses,
and hot water were soon produced ; and to these Maitland
himself added a bottle of rum, which he took from an ad-
joining closet. In a few minutes my two friends had each
mixed up a large tumbler; and, at their obstreperous import-
unities, I also mixed up one ; but I resolved not to taste it ;
and neither did I — a dereliction which escaped the
notice of my companions, who, satisfied by seeing me with a
dose before me, forgot to compel me to swallow it. This,
however, was a proceeding which they did not forget. In
a very short time, both of their tumblers were drained to
the bottom, and another couple prepared. It was at this
moment that I first observed a curious change in the man-
ner of Brown : he all at once became strangely incoherent —
an incoherence that appeared to me more like that of
insanity than intoxication. It is true that this is a com-
mon, nay, a necessary consequence of the latter ; and it is
true also that Brown had drunk quite enough to account
for it ; but there was a peculiarity, a wildness in his inco-
herence, that both surprised and alarmed me. He did not
seem to know where he was, who he was with, or what he
was doing. Nor was this state accompanied by the physi-
cal imbecility or sottish lethargy which usually character-
ises excessive inebriety ; on the contrary, his animal
energies seemed unnaturally increased. He was furious,
although not ill-natured; and his unsettled eye roved about
with a wild expression, and with restless activity. It might
be, that all this was merely the effects of intoxication — and
there can be no doubt that there lay its origin ; but I had
never seen such effects before from the same cause. •>

I have already casually adverted to one feature of Brown's

case — hia not seeming to know whom he was with. This
obliviousness came suddenly upcn him ; for, but an instant
before, he had been addressing both Maitland and I by
our names. In a moment after, he stared at us alternately,
with a wild and inquiring look. It was evident he did
not recognise us. I now, by signs, called Maitland's atten-
tion to the condition of our friend ; and he acknowledged the
communication, by proposing, in an affected off-hand man-
ner, as it was now so late, and the morning so wet, ( ic
was at this moment raining heavily.) that we should not
leave the house at all, but take our beds with him. To
this proposal, thinking it advisable on Brown's account,
I at once agreed, and suggested that we should retire
to bed immediately. Brown made no remark on his friend's
suggestion that he should remain all night ; he neither
dissented from nor approved of it, but seemed quite passive,
and willing to submit to any arrangement that we chose
to make. Taking advantage of this apparent pliancy and
indifference, we conducted him to a sofa, which was in
the apartment, as the most convenient resting-place for
him ; and having desired the housekeeper to bring in some
bed-clothes, we covered him up, and left him, as we thought,
snugfor the remainder of the night. Having thus disposed 01
our friend, Maitland and I retired to bed, as did also the old
housekeeper ; and, in a few minutes, all was quiet in the
house. I almost immediately fell into a profound sleep, and
might have been thus for about an hour, when I was suddenly
awakened by a violent noise in the apartment in which
Brown was. He had got up, and was overturning every-
thing he came across in the room, and shouting violently.
I listened for a moment, and heard him demanding to be
let out, and threatening the demolition of everything
within his reach, if he was not ; and he was already acting
on this threat, by smashing pictures and mirrors, and every-
thing else that came into his hands that he could destroy.
But his great object seemed to be to get out ; and he ap-
peared the more bent on this, that he did not yet know
where he was. Of this he had no idea, as I perceived from
his outrageous and incoherent expressions. He seemed,
however, to be under an impression that he was forcibly de-
tained by some persons ; and, conceiving himself ill-used, was
in a furious rage.

Alarmed at the destruction he was making, I hastily
arose, and, finding my way to where Maitland slept, I awoke
him ; for he was sound asleep, and had heard nothing of the
noise and ruin which his friend was occasioning.

"He must be let out instantly," said I, "or he'll destroy
everything in the room. I wonder he did not find the
way out himself, for I heard him working at the handle of
the door."

" Oh, I locked it," said Maitland, " for fear he should
get up through the night and leave the house." Here, then,
was in part explained the cause of Brown's outrageous
passion. He had found himself locked in, and this had
irritated him, and inspired him with the notion of his being
forcibly detained.

<f But we must let him out instantly," said I.

" Oh, surely, surely," replied Maitland, leaping on the
floor ; " but go you to bed, Tom — no occasion for you disturb-
ing yourself; I'll pacify him in a minute — and perhaps the
more readily that none are present but ourselves." Saying
this, he hurried away in his night-gown to the apartment
in which Brown was confined, while I retired, as he recom-
mended, to bed, and listened for the result of Maitland's
proceedings. The house was a large one, with a very long
passage running down the centre ; and, as Brown's apartment
was at the further end, I could not hear distinctly what
passed ; but I was surprised at a sudden cessation of ail noise
in Brown's room, the moment Maitland's footsteps ap-
proaching it by the passage became audible. It seemed
as if Brown had become silent on discovering that some one

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

was moving towards him ; and this perfect silence he main-
tained while his friend was for some time unsuccessfully
endeavouring to introduce the key into the key-hole ; neither
did he make any reply to, or take any notice whatever
of the expressions which Maitland was, from time to time,
addressing to him from the outside, while employed in
searching for the key-hole. I considered the circumstance
odd, and, without being able to account for it, felt unea&v at
it. At length, while listening with intense anxiety for the
issue, I heard the key enter the lock, I heard the door
opening, and, in the next instant, heard — I leave the reader
to imagine with what sensations — the cry, uttered in a wild,
unearthly voice, " I am murdered ! I am murdered !" The
voice was Maitland's. I leaped frantically from my bed,
and rushed along the passage. I met my unfortunate friend
coming towards me. He was staggering. " A light ! a light !"
he exclaimed — "I am murdered! I am murdered, Torn!" I flew
to the kitchen, found a lamp burning on the hearth, snatched
^t up, and ran again to the passage, when and where a sight
presented itself to me, which, to this hour, fills me with
horror when I think of it. Seated in the middle of this
passage — he had been able to get no farther — I found
Maitland, with both hands endeavouring to cover a large
wound in the lower part of his body. Here was a winding
up of the merriment and joyous recklessness of the pre-
ceding night ! On seeing the horrible and deplorable con-
dition in which my unfortunate friend was, I instantly
ran away for a surgeon, without waiting to exchange word's
with him, or to make any inquiries into the dreadful occur-
rence. I conceived that the first thing to be done, was to
procure him surgical assistance.

On knocking up the medical gentleman whose aid I
desired, and hurriedly stating the case to him, he re-
commended to me to run instantly and call up other two of
the profession, whom he named. This I did ; and, in less than
fifteen minutes, the whole three were in consultation around
the unhappy sufferer. I am not myself a medical man, and
therefore cannot describe the proceedings which those who
attended on this occasion adopted. Indeed I was but little
present, being unable to endure the horrible sight which
rr.y ill-fated friend presented. He was, however, perfectly
calm and collected ; and, short as the time for preparation
had been, resigned to his fate ; which, from the first, he
believed to be certain, and all but immediate death.

The surgeons having done what they could for the sufferer,
although with no hope whatever of saving his life — this,
from the hideous nature of the wound, being altogether out of
the question — a search was instituted for the murderer ; a pro-
ceding which was neither difficult nor tedious, as he was
found lying quietly on the sofa where the kindness of his
murdered friend had first laid him. Beside him, on the floor,
lay a large carving knife. It was with this he had done the
fatal deed ; and it was now discovered, or rather perhaps con-
jectured, that he had come by the possession of it by
accidentally overturning, or coming in contact with a knife
case, which stood on a side-board in the apartment.

When we first approached Brown, as he lay on the sofa,
he seemed to be in a kind of stupor ; his eyes were open,
but he appeared to be wholly unconscious of what was pass-
ing around him. One of the medical gentlemen present now
laid his hand on his shoulder, and, shaking him with some
violence, to arouse him, asked him if he knew what he had
done. To this he made no reply, but stared at us with a
bewildered look. The question was again repeated, when
a confused recollection of the horrid occurrence seemed
to pass through his mind ; for he became agitated and
deadly pale. To the question put to him, however, lie
replied in the negative : — " No," he s^id— " wiiai Juive I
done ?"

" You have murdered your friend, Maitiand,' repnea one
of the medical gentlemen ; "you have stabbed him, mortally

wounded him, and, we have every reason to believe, with this
knife ; and he held up the fatal instrument.

Blown made no reply for some time, but looked earnestly
at the knife, and then at us, alternately. At length—

" This is dreadful," he said, in a low, hollow voice—
"dreadful, dreadful, dreadful !" And he struck his hand on
his forehead with convulsive violence, and his whole frame
shook with the intensity of his mental agony.

He seemed now fully alive to the horrors of his situation
and to have a perfect recollection of the shocking occurrence
that had taken place. After a silence of some seconds,
disturbed only by the loud sobbings of a difficult and strug-
gling respiration, he again burst out with—

'0 my God! my God !— what is this? But it can-
not he a reality ; it is impossible ; it must be some horrid
dream. There must be some fearful delusion somewheie
/ murder Robert Maitland ! / stab him with a knife !—
my dearest, my best friend ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! — nonsense-^
impossible, impossible ! I would stab myself sooner— much
sooner, God knows ! I would not hurt a hair of his head
for worlds. I loved him, loved him most sincerely — and
yet you tell me I murdered him ! Base slanderers ! who
would believe you ? AVho would believe so utterly impro-
bable a story ? None, none. Ha ! ha ! ha ! None, none.
I am safe — who would believe you ?" He again burst into a
hysterical laugh.

It was now evident that the unfortunate young man's
senses had deserted him. But, whether this proceeded
from an overwhelming sense of the atrocity of his crime,
and of the dreadful situation in which he stood, or was but
a continuation of the consequences of the preceding night's
debauch, could not be determined. It appeared to me to
proceed in part from both. But, from whatever cause it
proceeded, it was most painful to witness ; and it was
impossible to look on. or listen to the wailings of the
unhappy man, great as his guilt was, without a feeling of
compassion.

One of the medical gentlemen present now made a
signal to the other — the third having remained by the
patient — to step aside with him. He did so ; and, though
they spoke in whispers, I overheard as much as informed
me that they were consulting as to the proprietyof giving
immediate information of the occurrence to the Fiscal, with
a view to having Brown apprehended ; and one of them
eventually undertook this duty, and was about to depart on
its execution, when his attention, and that of us all, was
suddenly called to the patient, by the medical gentleman
who had remained with him coming hastily to the door of
the apartment we were in, and, in a hurried voice, summon-
ing his brethren to the bedside of the sufferer. He was
expiring. We all hastened to the chamber of death, and
were just in time to hear the last words of poor Maitland.
These conveyed an earnest entreaty that no harm should
come to Brown for the occurrence of that night.

" For I feel perfectly assured," said the dying man, " that
it was either done altogether unintentionally, or that he
neither knew me nor what he was doing. I am certain of
that. Brown would not knowingly do me an injury. See,
then, gentlemen," he continued, " I entreat of you, with my
dying breath, that he be not in any way troubled for what
has happened. On the solemn declaration of a dying man,
I acquit him of all intention of doing me a wilful injury."

These were the last words he uttered ; but he continued
to breathe for some time afterwards, and the medical gentle-
men still remained by his bedside

Taking advantage of this interval, I stole out of the
apartment, and hastened to that in which Brown had been
left to warn him of his danger, and to prevail upon him to
fly. But he was not there. I went to the street door and
fo'und it open. Impelled by a natural instin.t, Brown had
already fled ; and I was glad to find that he had.

204

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

On my return to the room in which Maitland was, I was
info.-medthat he was dead. His murderer, as just mentioned,
had left the house ; but he had not gone far: he xvas appre-
hended in his father's house on the following morning, and
carried to jail. He was subsequently brought to trial before
the High Court of Justiciary ; but escaped with his life, on the
plea of insanity, supported by other extenuatingcircumstances.
What became of him afterwards I could never learn, nor do I
know to this hour. The general belief was, however, that he
was conveyed out of the country ; and this seems confirmed
by the fact that he was never again seen or heard of by any
one who knew him. I need not enter into any description
cf the misery and desolation with which the dreadful occur-
rence just related overwhelmed the families of the unfortun-
ate young men, equally that of the injurer as the injured,
and almost equally likewise those of their respective brides
elect. The young ladies never, again appeared at any place
of public resort: one of them, the chosen of the un-
fortunate Maitland, followed him to a premature grave ;
and the other, in about two years after the fatal occurrence,
went abroad to reside with a relative, where she also shortly
afterwards died.

Such, then, was the appalling termination to which one
night of unguarded indulgence brought the careers of two
most promising young men — hurling both, in a few short
hours, from the summit of human felicity, the one into a
premature and blood-stained grave, the other into the lowest
depths of human misery — into a situation of as utter
wretchedness as the human mind can perhaps conceive.

I have but one remark to add to this dismal tale ; and
I leave the reader to employ his own reasoning on it, and
to draw from it his own conclusions. The excess which led
to the melancholy results just related, was not habitual to
the unfortunate young men whose history exhibits them j
on the contrary, they were remarkable for the general
temperance of their habits, and the uniform correctness of
their lives. It was an indulgence excited by a particular
occasion, and given way to for a time under peculiar
circumstances and feelings. If there is a lesson here, let
it be learned.

THE REFORMED.

IN the year 1744, a young man, of good personal appearance,
but indifferently dressed, stepped on board a vessel at Leith
jound for Cadiz, and inquired if the captain would take
him out as a passenger. The latter, eyeing him for a mo-
ment with a scrutinizing look, said he had no objection,
provided he paid his passage-money in advance. To this
proposal the young man at once agreed ; and having ascer-
tained that the vessel would sail in an hour, added, that he
would return at the expiry of that time and then settle for
his passage. Punctual to time, he, in an hour afterwards,
again appeared on the deck of the Flora, which was the
name of the vessel now about to sail for Spain, and, request-
ing the captain, in a hurried manner, to conduct him below,
he there paid the former, in guineas, the amount of his passage
money. Having received his money, the captain again
hastened on deck, to superintend the various preparatory
proceedings to getting the vessel unmoored and under weigh.
His passenger, however, did not follow him ; he remained
below ; and, although there were many inducements to have
urged him on deck, and, amongst them .a curiosity to see
what was going on, there he continued. He either had
none of this curiosity, or he had some secret reason for re-
maining in his present situation; and from his manner alto-
gether, this rather seemed to be the case. He had no
luggage — none whatever ; not even a change of linen, or,
indeed, of anything else. His looks, too, were troubled, and
full of an indefinite apprehension. His tone of voice was

subdued and flurried, as it by some strong internal agitation.
If any one had marked him, as he now sat alone in a corner
of the cabin of the Flora, they would have seen, beside*
these symptoms of a mind ill at ease, a pale and haggard
countenance, frequent and sudden looks of alarm on any
unusual noise being made on deck, and a feeling of im-
patience and uneasiness which evidently bore reference to
the motions of the vessel, and told of an anxiety for her de-
parture. This was a source of pain, however, which was
soon to terminate. The vessel was flung loose from the
quay, her canvass was spread to the breeze, and, in a few
minutes, she had glided out of the harbour, when, having
gained sufficient sea-room, her bow was turned down the
Frith, and she bore away on her voyage. It was now, for
the first time, that the solitary occupant of the cabin came
on deck. But he did not do this even yet all at once. He
stole slowly up the companion ladder, and peered cautiously
around, before venturing to emerge entirely. Seeing, how-
ever, that the vessel was fairly at sea, he stepped on the
deck, and exhibited a very marked change of countenance.
A load of uneasiness seemed to have been removed from his
mind ; and his looks, before strongly expressive of terror and
alarm, were now cheerful and confident. The unfortunat«
passenger, however — for unfortunate he was, that was evident,
of whatever nature were his sorrows — was not long permitted
to enjoy his new and pleasurable feelings.

" There's a boat making after us," exclaimed the captain ;
and, immediately after, he issued orders to the men forward to
prepare for bringing the vessel to.

" Where is she ?" inquired the passenger. (He was the
only one in the ship,) " Where is she ?" he said, with a look
expressive of renewed apprehension, and turning deadly pale
as he spoke.

" There she is," said the captain, pointing to a small
boat that was evidently directing her route towards them.

The young man looked at her for an instant, then, without
saying a word in reply, or making any remark, slunk away
down again into the cabin, where, if any one should have
now followed him, and seen the dreadful agitation with
which his whole frame was shaking, his haggard counte-
nance, and white and quivering lip, they would have little
doubt that a load of unatoned guilt lay heavily upon him ;
that he had rendered himself amenable to the Jaws of man
as well as God,, by the perpetration of some dark and
heinous crime. Their former suspicions of this would have
been confirmed, and they would have seen that the wretched
man was in terror of the arm of justice overtaking him, and
that he dreaded that the boat which was now approaching
contained those who would carry him within its reach. In
the meantime, the yawl advanced — it came alongside — the
young man heard voices — his heart sunk within him — he
threw himself back and gasped for breath, and shook in
every limb, as if seized with a universal palsy. Oh, that
moment of horror and despair ! Worlds could not compen-
s ate it — ages of felicity would be dearly bought with it. It
was dreadful. Yet, after all, these were but the fears of a
guilty conscience, the terrors of an excited imagination,
associated with a consciousness of crime ; for no one came
near the solitary and terror-stricken passenger — none
disturbed him. The boat that had come alongside shoved
off in a few minutes, with its crew, without any communica-
tion of any kind reaching him. He heard the " Good by !"
of the captain to the boat's company. He heard their oars
strike the water and gradually grow faint in the distance.
Joyful, transporting sounds to him !

'Thank God! thank God!" he exclaimed, fervently, leap-
ing to his feet in an ecstasy of happiness, and, in the joyous
distraction of the moment, beating his flushed forehead
with the palm of his hand. " I have escaped, I have
escaped ! Oh, horrors ! to be taken, to be brought to trial, to
be hanged on a gibbet ! Yes, walk pinioned up the

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

205

ladder, led on the scaffold, and exposed to the gaze of a pity-
ing multitude — that dreadful sea of human faces ! Oh !
horror, horror, horror ! But I've escaped — I've escaped !"
And the wretched youth burst into a flood of tears. " I've
escaped through Thy boundless mercy, my Almighty Father!
and it shall be the earnest endeavour, the sole object, of my
future life, to atone to Thee and to society for the grievous
offence of which I have been guilty."

Such were the communings of dark and fearful import of
the solitary passenger in the cabin of the Flora on the occa-
sion of the visit already described ; but no one saw or heard
aught of these communings, save Him to whom they were
in part addressed.

After the lapse of about half-an-hour — during which time
the young man of whom we are speaking, having regained,
as he believed, sufficient confidence and composure to appear
before the captain of the vessel without exciting any sus-
picion of the feelings by which he had been lately so
agitated — he ascended the cabin stair, and came, though
still not without some hesitation, on deck. The young man,
however, had not so much to fear from the captain's pene-
tration as he dreaded, this being a quality with which the
latter was but very moderately gifted. In truth, he neither
sought to know, nor cared to know, anything at all about
his passenger. The lad had paid his money, was quiet and
civil in his demeanour, and put up cheerfully with what-
ever fare was put before him ; and this was quite enough
for him. He cared nothing about the rest. It was, there-
fore, with the same indifference and apathy — not, however,
by any means amounting to unkindness — that the captain
of the Flora, at the end of about six weeks, landed his
passenger on the Mole at Cadiz, knowing as little about
him when he parted with him there, as he did when he
came on board of him in the harbour of Leith. Neither
had he ever inquired whither he intended going after he
got ashore, or what he intended being about. All that he
did and said at parting was to take the young man by the
hand, shake it cordially, and wish him " luck."

Having nothing farther to do with the captain of the
Flora, we shall now follow the footsteps of his passenger,
and see whither they were bent, and what were the in-
tentions that directed them.

On gaining the town, he might have been seen gazing, as
he went along, on the various signs that were exhibited over
the doors of stores, hotels, &c. ; and to these alone his at-
tention seemed chiefly directed. He was in quest of quarters;
and these he at length found in the house of a Scotchman
of the name of Andrew Scott, whose national patronymic
he saw blazoned above his door; and which at once de-
termined his choice.

On entering the house and making himself known as a
countryman, he was kindly received by the landlord, who
mmediately placed before him the best that both his larder
and cellar could produce, for which he would take no
other payment than such news from Scotland as his guest
could give. Pleased with the lad's manner and appearance,
and judging from his dress that his circumstances were
not in a very flourishing condition, the landlord, after they
had sat and talked themselves into something approach-
ing to familiarity, asked his guest what were his views
in coming to Cadiz, whether he had any friends there,
&c.

The lad replied, that of the latter he had none, an J that,
as to views, they were indefinite. He had just come out
on chance, he said, to see whether he could not get a
situation as a clerk, or storekeeper, or something of that
kind.

" Dear me, man," replied his kind-hearted host, " but
that was rash o' ye — to leave yer ain country and come
here, trusting to so slender a stay as chance. Hae ye pny
letters o' introduction, o' ony kind, to onybody ?" inquired

Andrew, in a despairing tone, excited by the interest h«
felt in the young man.

The latter replied that he had no letter of any kind
to any one.

" 'Od, man, it's a bad business, I doot," said his host ;
''but let me see"— and he put his hand to his forehead, and
thought for a moment. « Ay, I'll tell ye what ye may do :
ye may ca' on Telford & Bogle, the great wine -merchants •
they are baith Scotsmen, though Mr Bogle's no here the
noo. He's gane hame, and I dinna think he'll ever come
back again ; for he's sair broken doun in his health. I say
ye may ca' on them— that's on Mr Telford— and just plainly
state yer case to him, and there's nae sayin what he may
do for ye, seein ye're a countryman, although I maun say I
hae nae great houps o' yer succeedin, seein that ye want
recommendations ; but there can be nae harm whatever in
tryin. What's your name, lad ?" added Andrew, abruptly.

A slight flush suffused the countenance of his guest
and he answered, though not without some delay and con-
fusion—

" James Blackburn."

" Weel, James," continued his host, " I think you had
better wait on Mr Telford, as I was sayin. I'll conduct
ye to his store, and I think the sooner we go the better."

To this proposal James — the name, adding, as occasion
may require, his sirname, by which we must henceforth
designate the passenger per the Flora — readily assented;
and, in a few minutes, the two set out for the wine-vaults
of Messrs Telford & Bogle. On arriving there, however,
they were disappointed to find only a clerk ; Mr Telford
having just gone away to his country house about a mile
out of town. Under these circumstances James' case was
stated to the person they found, by the former's landlord,
who acted as spokesman for him, and his desire to get into
employment mentioned. The clerk said, in reply, that he
did not think there was any chance of the applicant's getting
an engagement with them ; but recommended to him to
go out directly to Mr Telford and see that gentleman him-
self on the subject. To this the young man readily agreed ;
and, as it was inconvenient for his landlord to accompany
him, he was furnished with a sort of introductory line to
Mr Telford by the clerk. This line merely stated that
the bearer was a native of Scotland, who had come out
in quest of employment as a clerk. With this docu-
ment the young man set out ; having been previously
directed in the route he should take by his host, who
further desired, him to let him know the result of his
application so soon as he returned. With this friendly
request he readily promised compliance, and proceeded on
his way.

On arriving at the superb villa of Mr Telford, Black-
burn, on asking for that gentleman, was ushered into his
presence.

Having delivered his note of introduction —

" You are from Scotland, young man ?" said Mr Telford,
after he had perused it, " and you want employment ?"

Blackburn replied in the affirmative.

" Where are your letters of recommendation ?"

" I have none, sir."

" What ! Did you come jhere without any letters of re-
commendation ?" exclaimed Mr Telford, in surprise. " Have
vou any testimonials as to character, then — any document
whatever, to warrant confidence in you ?"

Blackburn said he had none — none whatever.

" That is most extraordinary," replied Mr Telford. " How,
in all the world, young man, could you think of coming to
a foreign country, in quest of employment, without a scrap
of testimonial or recommendation with you ? You have
really drawn largely on chance. What is the meaning of
it?"

The young man modestly replied, that he had never been

206

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

in any employment before, and that, therefore, he could
obtain no recommendation from any persons standing in
that relation to him ; and that his friends were too obscure,
and in too humble a walk in life, to render their testimonials
of any avail.

' But your clergyman," said Mr Telford — '' could you not
have got a testimonial as to character from him ?"

On the mention of this person, his " clergyman," the
young man became as pale as death, a general tremor came
over him, and he felt so confused and giddy that it was
some time before he could make any reply. At length, he
stammered out the simple declaration, that he had never
thought of applying to him.

Mr Telford remarked the young man's sudden agitation ;
but he attributed it to a degree of nervousness, caused by
the peculiarity of his situation, which he felt must be one
of intense anxiety ; and, putting this construction on it, it
rather forwarded than retarded Blackburn's views, by excit-
ing the sympathy of Mr Telford.

" Well, young man," said that gentleman, after he had
silently thought for a few moments, " I certainly do think
it very strange, very odd, that you should have come out
here, in quest of employment, without any letters of recom-
mendation or testimonials as to character ; yet, as you are
a countryman, and, I dare say" — and here he glanced at
Blackburn's exterior, which, as we have already informed
the reader, was in but a very indifferent condition — " not
overly Avell provided against disappointment, especially in
a foreign land, I will see what I can do for you. Meet me
at my counting-house to-morrow at ten o'clock. Now,
James," (he had previously learnt his name,) " let me add,"
continued Mr Telford, " and I do so with the view of incit-
ing you to diligence and attention, that, in finding some
employment for you, without any recommendation or cha-
racter, I do so partly out of sympathy for your situation,
and partly because I have had so many scamps with recom-
mendations, and those of the very strongest, that I am
willing to make an experiment on the services of one who
has none. I tell you this candidly, James, and hope it will
have that influence on your conduct which has been my
motive for mentioning it to you."

Mr Telford next asked Blackburn to shew him a speci-
men of his handwriting. He did so. His employer was
highly pleased with it — as, in truth, he well might, for it was
a remarkably fine one.

On the next day, Blackburn met Mr Telford at his count-
ing-house, agreeably to appointment, and was immediately
placed at a desk, and set to work. The first specimens of
his qualifications for the counting-house were found per-
fectly satisfactory, and promised permanency to his situation.
This followed, and was subsequently secured by a regular
agreement, which put Blackburn in possession of a com-
petent salary.

At the end of about twelve months, during which time
the young man had distinguished himself by unremitting
attention to his duties, by uncommon business talents, and
by the most exemplary conduct, the head clerk of the esta-
blishment died of a virulent fever that was then devastating
Cadiz ; a similar visitation having carried off other two
clerks about the time Blackburn entered Mr Telford's em-
ployment. At the death of the head clerk, as mentioned,
the former, who had already secured the highest opinion of
his employer, was appointed to his situation. On this
occasion Mr Telford called him into his private room, and,
having shut the door, told him of his intention to promote
him to the vacant situation. Having made this communi-
cation, he desired him to sit down.

" Now, James," said Mr Telford, " you see the confidence
I put in you, by placing the entire superintendence of my
establishment in your hands, and you will not think it un~
reasonable if I expect similar confidence on your part.

You have never yet told me anything of your history, neither
have I asked you. I have hitherto forborne, from motives
of delicacy towards you ; but now that you are about to be
placed in so responsible a situation as that of head clerk oi
our firm, I do think I have some right to know a little
more of your history than I am yet acquainted with. I
trust you will see, James, that this is not an idle or impert-
inent, but perfectly reasonable curiosity."

It would not be easy to describe the feelings of Black-
burn on this address being made to him. That they were
harrowing in the last degree, was evident from the sudden
ashy paleness which overspread his countenance, and the
violent tremor with which his frame was agitated. Mr
Telford marked these signs of internal suffering, together
with the hesitation that accompanied them, and said, though
rather peevishly, and in a tone that indicated something
like chagrin — it might be displeasure —

" I would not pain you, James — I do not ask you to give me
your history under any threat — you need not tell it unless
you like ; but I think you might have more confidence in
me."

The young man burst into tears, and said —

" I will, sir — I will tell you all, at whatever risk." And
on regaining a little composure, he began, and stated that
he was the son of a vintner in the Grassmarkct of Edin-
burgh; that his mother had died while he was yet an infant ;
that his father had always had a hard struggle with the
world, being in straitened circumstances, and having but
little business ; that, notwithstanding this, he had given
him, who was his only child, a liberal education, at the ex-
pense of great suffering and privation to himself; that, as
he grew up, he became acquainted with a gang of idle, dis-
solute lads, in whose company he spent that time which
should have been devoted to his educational improvement,
or in assisting his father ; that his evil propensities grew
upon him Avith his years, until he at length deserted his
father's house altogether, and gave himself up to a life of
idleness and wickedness, coming only home occasionally, to
seek the means of carrying on his infamous career ; that,
in the meantime, his father died, and that the state of total
destitution in which this event left him, gradually opened his
eyes to the folly and wickedness of his conduct ; that, on
attaining a full sense of this, he determined to reform, and
to lead for the future such a life as would in some measure
atone for his past misdemeanours ; that he found the
first step towards this was to betake himself to some honest
calling — but having none to recommend him, and being but
too well known in his native city, as a lad of wild and loose
habits, he could find no employment ; that, in this desper-
ate situation, having neither friend nor relation in Edin-
burgh, he determined on quitting the city, and seeking to
better himself somewhere else ; that happening, while he
was in this mood, to stroll down to Leith, he saw a ticket
on the vessel by which he had come out, announcing that
she was bound for Cadiz; and that he on the instant deter-
mined to go with her, and trust to chance for the rest, see-
ing that he could not possibly be worse abroad than he
was at home.

Such, in substance, was the story which Blackburn told
his employer ; and, so far as it went, it was perfectly true
in every particular. It was the truth — nothing but the truth;
but it was not the whole truth. When Blackburn said he
would tell all, he cither said so with a mental reservation,
or his courage forsook him in the course of his narration ;
for he did not tell all. There was one passage in his life,
one damning incident, which he did not relate. What that
was, will appear in the sequel.

It was some time after the young man had concluded,
before Mr Telford made any reply to, or any remark on
what had just been related to him. At length, however,
he said, with a smile —

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" You have been, James, it would appear, from your own
account, a sad boy in your younger years. I hope, however —
indeed I have no doubt of it, from the experience I have
had of you — that you will make it all up yet, and exhibit,
in your future conduct, more than enough to compensate
for the past. In the meantime, let me assure you that
what you have told me, has not in the least lessened you in
my opinion, or shaken my confidence in you. On the con-
trary, your candour in stating the worst of yourself, has
increased it. Go and assume your new duties, and believe
that your story is perfectly safe in my keeping. None
shall know anything of it."

Here this interview, so interesting to the parties con.
cerned, terminated. Blackburn repaired to his station in
the counting-house, and Mr Telford shortly afterwards went
off to his country house.

The position of Blackburn seemed now to be a very
enviable one — and, so far as circumstances went, it truly was
so : but, associated with these, there was a misery, a torture
of mind, which forbade all happiness, which poisoned all
the sources of enjoyment — nay, even the springs of life them-
selves. In his new capacity, it was Blackburn's peculiar
duty to superintend the shipment for Britain of all wines
exported thither by the house to which he belonged — a
duty to which he always evinced the utmost repug-
nance, although he took great care that no expression of
this feeling should betray it. But whence did this repug-
nance proceed ? What was the cause of it ? It proceeded
from an unwillingness to be brought into contact with any
persons from his native country ; and any one who could
have marked the agitation and misery which he appeared
to endure on these occasions, would, let his guilt be what
it might, have sincerely pitied him. But it was when a
vessel arrived, especially one from Scotland, that his mental
sufferings were greatest. This he dreaded most. For
long after his settlement in Cadiz, he grew pale on the
announcement of any ship's arrival, and never seemed to
breathe freely until it had again put to sea.

But all this, as in a former instance, was the result merely
of a disturbed mind ; for no vessel brought any evil tidings
to him, nor did the slightest circumstance occur, externally,
to disturb his tranquillity. In the meantime, years rolled on,
and each, as it passed, added to Blackburn's reputation as a
steady, honourable, and expert man of business. Each
year, too, added to his consequence and importance in the
h'rm with which he was connected. His control over its
affairs was unlimited — almost undivided ; for Mr Telford,
the only partner on the spot, seldom interfered — so great was
his confidence in the ability and integrity of his chief clerk,
and so highly satisfied was he with everything he did. His
salary, too, was proportioned to his merits. It was handsome
— much beyond that of any other person in a similar situation
in Cadiz. These years, too, that had passed on, had restored,
in great part, that peace of mind which had been so much
wanting to his happiness in former times. He now no
longer lived under the terror of recognition, which had
haunted him in previous years; or, if he did, it was but rarely,
of short continuance, and of a less formidable character than
was its wont. Time, in short, the great anodyne for all
diseases of the mind, had smoothed down, nearly obliterated
those feelings which had once so grievously tortured him,
and a long immunity had dulled his apprehensions of the
consequences of that deed which had excited them.

It was about this period — that is, some eight or ten years
after Blackburn's settlement in Cadiz — that the remaining
partner of the firm, Mr Telford, began to entertain thoughts
of returning to his native country. He had fallen into a
state of bad health, and longed to breathe the air of his father
land. These thoughts and wishes gained strength as hif
health decayed, until they at length urged him to the fixe(
determination of returning to Scotland. Having come to

this resolution, he held a conference with his clerk, told him
of his intentions, and added that he meant to leave him the
entire charge of the business and interests of the firm in
Cadiz, until he should see his partner, Mr Bogle, then in
Scotland, when, he said, he had no doubt he would obtain
that gentleman's consent to his being confirmed their agent
in Spain, or rather sole manager of their immense establish-
ment there.

" I must return to Scotland, Mr Blackburn," said Mr
Telford, " and that immediately, else I may never see my
native land. Yet I do not go with any very sanguine hopes
of recovery — I feel too far gone for that ; but I am desirous
to lay my bones beside those of my fathers, in the little,
lonely churchyard of my native village. I think, too, I
could die without reluctance or regret, if I was blessed with
one other sight of the dear heath-clad hills of Scotland. It
is almost all I now wish for."

Thus spoke the dying merchant ; for he wa .y dying —
that was made sufficiently evident by his pallid counte-
nance and emaciated frame ; and thus was Blackburn raised
another step on the ladder of fortune.

In less than three weeks after this conversation took
place, Mr Telford broke up his domestic establishment,
and embarked for Scotland ; leaving his superb villa with
its furniture, to be occupied by his representative, Mr
Blackburn.

In due time after the departure of the former, the latte1-
received a joint letter from him and his partner, Mr Bogle,
appointing and confirming him their sole agent at Cadiz,
with power to act in every case as he judged best for their
interest. To this was subjoined the agreeable intimation of
a large addition to his salary, and the still more agreeable
tidings, that he was admitted a partner in the concern of
Messrs Telford & Bogle, to the extent of one-fifth.

Blackburn now stood in a very elevated position. He
was a person of note, an important man " on Change," and
otherwise of the highest respectability. But his good
fortune did not end here. In little more than a year after-
wards, Mr Telford, the principal of the firm, died. On this
event taking place, Mr Bogle, who was now an old man and
in infirm health, expressed, in a letter which he addressed to
Mr Blackburn, a desire to withdraw from the firm altogether,
as he felt himself wholly unable to take any further active
part in its concerns, or indeed to attend to business of any
kind ; and concluded by making an offer of the whole stock
and interests of the firm to his correspondent, on such terms
as the latter could not but consider highly advantageous.
With this offer Blackburn at once closed ; and the necessary
interchange of documents on the subject having taken place,
Mr Blackburn commenced business on his own account, and
with a success that promised soon to conduct him to inde-
pendence.

Having brought the history of our hero to this point, we
there leave him, and resume "our narrative after an interval
of ten years, with a change also of the scene of the subse-
quent occurrences.

At the end of the period named, or towards the close of
the summer of 1764, a vessel from Cadiz, loaded with wine,
arrived at the port of Leith. On board of this vessel was
a gentleman, the proprietor of the cargo. This gentleman
was Mr Blackburn. He had realized, during the interval
which we have passed over, a considerable fortune ; but,
while increasing his means, he had been losing his health,
and this, latterly, so rapidly that he had determined on
quitting the country before he should be so far enfeebled as
to render recovery hopeless. Having come to this resolu-
tion, he made the necessary arrangements for carrying it
into execution, and finally embarked for his native land.
In doing this, it was not his intention to give up busi-
ness, but merely to change the scene of his exertions.
He resolved on commencing business in Edinburgh, his

208

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

native city, as a wine-merchant ; and hence the reason of
his bringing with him the cargo of wine of which we have
spoken.

On the wine being landed on the quay, Mr Blackburn
might have been seen going amongst the casks or butts, and,
after tasting many, carefully selecting one. This he
ordered to be rolled out from amongst the others, and, with
his own hands, nailed a card on it, bearing the address of
"The Rev. Dr Marshall, Edinburgh." This done, he
dispatched it, by a cart, to its destination. Comformably to
his orders, the carter drove the pipe of wine up to the
worthy doctor's door, and, summoning out his housekeeper —
for the doctor was a widower — told her that it was for her
master, and requested to know where he should put it.

" A pipe o' wine ! — a hail pipe o' wine, for the doctor !"
exclaimed Mrs Brackinridge — for such was the housekeeper's
name — in great surprise. " Preserve us, that's an awfu
quantity ! The doctor never used to get in aboon three
dizen at a time. What in a' the yearth could hae puttin't
in his head to order a pipe ! That'll last him twenty years,
if he grows nae drouthier than he used to be. But
are ye sure, honest man," continued Mrs Brackinridge,
<f that there's nae mistak in the business ?"

" Sure aneuch," replied the man. " The gentleman that
aucht it, directed it wi' his ain hands."

" But I'm no sure o't," rejoined the cautious housekeeper.
" Wait there till I go and tell the doctor about it." And she
hastened up to his study.

On entering the apartment —

" Save us, doctor !" she said, " here's a man wi' a pipe o'
wine on a cart at the door — a hail pipe — and he says it's for
you."

" A pipe o' wine for me, Mrs Brackinridge !" replied the
doctor, no less surprised at the circumstance than his house-
keeper. " It's impossible ! There must be some mistake
in it I"

" 1 thocht that, doctor, and I said it too ; but the man
insists it's a' richt aneuch ; an' if that be the case, ye ken,
we may just as weel tak it in at aince. My certy! we're no
gaun to turn awa a pipe o' wine frae the door withoot
kennin what for. It's no every day a win' fa' like this
comes oor way, an' I warrant it's guid gear."

" I dare say it may, Mrs Brackinridge," replied the good
doctor, smiling ; " but I must know something more of it
before I can take possession of it. There must be a mistake
in it. Be so good as send the man up to me."

The man was introduced.

" Who sent you," said the doctor to him, " with this pipe
of wine to me ?"

" A gentleman, sir, on the shore o' Leith, that's landin a
cargo o' wine frae Cadiz."

" Do you know his name ?"

" No."

" Are you perfectly sure he desired you to bring it to
me — to Dr Marshall r"

" Perfectly sure o' that, sir. He pat on the direction wi'
his ain hands, and asked me three times owre if I kent ye,
and kent whar ye lived."

" It is very strange — most extraordinary," replied the
doctor ; " still I cannot help thinking there is some mistake
in it ; but, since you are so positive as to your instructions
regarding the wine, you may put it off, and I'll take charge
of it. Have I anything to pay you?"

" Naething, sir — the gentleman paid me, and paid me
handsomely."

The pipe of wine was rolled off the cart, and deposited
in a cellar of the doctor's ; but, under a strong conviction that
there must be some mistake in the matter, here he meant
that it should lie untouched, until some further light should
be thrown on it ; and he had no doubt that a short time
would do this, and that the real owner would soon appear."

On the day following that on which the occurrence just
related took place, a gentleman called at Dr Marshall's, and
inquired if he was within. He was answered in the
affirmative. " Could I see him ?" He was ushered into
the doctor's study. The doctor, seeing in his visiter a re-
markably well-dressed and gentlemanlike person, rose from
his chair, and, with the kind affability of his nature, requested
him to be seated. The stranger sat down. A prefatory
conversation took place on common and indifferent topics ;
the doctor being of too amiable and polite a nature to ask
his visiter in direct terms the purpose of his call. For this
he waited his own good time, and this the more readilv that
he found the conversation of the stranger singularly agreeable
and intelligent. At length —

" I should think, sir," said the doctor with a smile, and
looking closely in the face of his visiter, " that you have
been in foreign parts lately. You wear the hue of a warmer
climate than ours."

" I believe I do, sir," replied the stranger, smiling, in
turn ; " and there is little wonder I should, seeing that I
have been for twenty years abroad, and have returned but
the other day."

" I conjectured as much," said the worthy divine. " In
what part abroad were you, sir, if I may ask ?"

" Spain, sir — Cadiz," replied the stranger, who, the reader
will very likely have conjectured, was Mr Blackburn. It
was he.

" Ah ! indeed !" said the doctor — and here a pause took
place in the conversation. During this pause the doctor's
visiter seemed struggling with some internal emotion, as if
gathering resolution to say or do something of an unpleasant
nature. And this was the case. Suddenly rising from his
seat, and approaching Mr Marshall —

'f Doctor," he said, " do you remember of being attacked
on Leith Walk, about twenty years ago, by a young man,
and robbed of twenty guineas ?"

'' Remember it !" exclaimed the doctor — u I do, indeed,
very well. It is impossible I should forget it. But how,
sir, come you to know anything of that affair ? I never
mentioned it to a living being. I prayed for the unhappy
youth ; but I would not be instrumental in procuring the
shedding of a fellow-creature's blood ; and therefore it was
that I mentioned the occurrence to no one, and I thought
that it was known to none but to God and ourselves — the
injurer and the injured. How, sir, may I ask you, did the
circumstance come to your knowledge ? Do you know who
the robber was ?

" Doctor Marshall," said Mr Blackburn, with great emo-
tion, " you see that robber before you — / was the man !"

" You, sir ! — you the man !" exclaimed the worthy doctor,
with a look that would be but feebly characterised as one of
surprise. " Impossible ! impossible !"

" Nay, sir, it is but too true. It was I that robbed you ,
and a miserable man have I been since, although the gifts
of fortune have not been denied me ; but they have hitherto
been bestowed in vain, and in vain still will they have been
bestowed, if I do not obtain your forgiveness. Here is the
money I robbed you of, and the pipe of wine I sent you
must be accepted of for interest."

The repentant offender was on his knees. The gooi?
minister lifted him up and granted his forgiveness. Mr
Blackburn became a worthy member of his congregation,
and an intimacy existed between the two till they were
separated by death.

WILSON'S

, STvatrttfonarg, unit 3£ma£tttattl><>

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

TPIE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN.

WHEN I was a boy, I used to pass the summer vacation in
the Isle of Bute, where my father had a small cottage, for
the convenience of sea-bathing. I enjoyed my sea-side visits
greatly, for I was passionately fond of boating and fishing,
and, before I was sixteen, had become a fearless and excel-
lent swimmer. From morning till night, I was rambling
about the beach, or either sailing upon or swimming in
the beautiful Frith. I \vas a prime favourite among the
fishermen, with most of whom I was on familiar terms, and
knew them all by name. Among their number was one
man who particularly attracted my attention, and excited
my curiosity. He was civil and obliging, though distant
and reserved in his manners, with a shade of habitual
melancholy on his countenance, which awakened my sym-
pathy, at the same time that his " bearing," which was
much above his station, commanded my respect. He
appeared to be about sixty years of age ; particularly pre-
possessing in his appearance ; and his language and demean-
our would have done honour to any rank of society. I felt
involuntarily attracted towards him, and took every oppor-
tunity of shewing my wish to please and become better
acquainted with him ; but in vain. He seemed gratified by
my attentions ; but I made no nearer approach to his con-
fidence. He went, among his companions, by the name of
" Gentleman Douglas ;" but they appeared to be as ignorant
of the particulars of his history as myself. All they knew
of him was, that he had come among them, a perfect stran-
ger, some years before, no one knew from whence ; that he
seemed to have some means of support independent of his
boat ; and that he was melancholy, silent, and reserved — as
much as possible avoiding all communication with his
neighbours. These particulars only served to whet my
boyish curiosity, and I determined to leave no means
untried to penetrate to the bottom of Douglas' mystery.
Let me do myself justice, however: my eagerness to know
his history proceeded from an earnest desire to soothe his
sorrow, whatever it might be, and to benefit him in any
way in my power. Day after day I used to stroll down to
t.he beach, when he was preparing to get his boat under
way, and volunteer to pull an oar on board. At first he
seemed annoyed by my officiousness ; and, though he
always behaved with civility, shewed, by his impatient
manner, that he would rather dispense with my company;
but the constant dripping of water will wear away a stone,
and hard indeed must be the heart that will not be softened
by unremitting kindness. My persevering wish to please
him gradually produced the desired effect — he was pleased,
and evinced it by his increasing cordiality of manner, and
by the greater interest he seemed to take in all my move-
ments. In a short time we became inseparables, and his
boat hardly ever left the shore without me. My father was
not at all adverse to my intimacy with Douglas ; he knew
him to be a sober, industrious man, and one who bore an
irreproachable moral character ; and, as he was anxious that
I should strengthen my constitution as much as possible in
the sea-breeze, he thought I could not roam about under
safer or less objectionable protection. On a further acquaint-
131. VOL. III.

ance with Douglas, I found him a most agreeable companion ;
for, when his reserve wore off, his conversation was amus-
ing and instructive ; and he had tales to tell of foreign lands
and of distant seas, which he described with that minute-
ness and closeness which only a personal acquaintance
with them could have produced. Often, in the course of
his narration, his eye would brighten and his cheek glow
with an emotion foreign to his usual calm and melancholy
manner ; and then he would suddenly stop, as if some
sound he had uttered had awakened dark memories of the
past, and the gloom clouded his brow again, his voice
trembled, and his cheek grew pale. These sudden transi-
tions alarmed and surprised me ; my suspicions were
excited, and I began to imagine that the man must have
been guilty of some unknown and dreadful crime, and that
conscience was at such times busy within him. Douglas
must have observed my changing manner ; but it made little
alteration in his demeanour towards myself.

" What is the matter, Douglas?" said I, one day, when 1
observed him start and turn pale at some casual observation
of mine.

" Do not indulge a vain and idle curiosity, Master Charles,
at the expense of another's feelings," replied he, gravely
and mournfully, "nor endeavour to rake up the ashes of
the past. The heart knows its own bitterness : long may
yours be a stranger to sorrow ! I have observed, with pain,
that you, as others have done, begin to look upon me with
suspicion. Be satisfied with the assurance, that I have no
crimes, needing concealment, to reproach myself with ; and
the sorrows of age should be sacred in the eyes of youth."

I was humbled by the old man's reproof, and hastened to
express my concern for having hurt his feelings.

" Enough said, enough said, Mr Charles," said he ;
" Curiosity is natural at your age ; and I am not surprised
at your wishing, like some of your elders, to learn the cause
of the melancholy which hangs over me like a cloud, darken-
ing the path of life, and embittering all its pleasures. At
some future time I will tell you the reason why you see me
what I am ; but I cannot now — the very thought of it unmans
me."

Time wore on ; every year I returned to the sea-side
during the summer, and was always welcomed with
unaffected cordiality by my old ally, Douglas. I was now
a strapping youth of nineteen, tall and powerful of my age
— thanks to the bracing sea-air and constant exercise. One
day Douglas told me he was going over to Largs, and asked
if I would accompany him.

" With all my heart," said I ; and, in ten minutes, we
were standing across the Frith with a fine steady breeze.
We were close over to the Ayrshire coast, when a sudden
puff of wind capsized the boat, and we were both thrown
into the water. When I rose to the surface again, after my
plunge, I looked around in vain for Douglas, who had dis-
appeared. He had on a heavy pea-jacket, and I was at
first afraid the weight and encumbrance of it must have
sunk him ; but, on second thoughts, I dived under the
boat, and found him floundering about beneath the sail,
from whence I succeeded with great difficulty in extricating
him. He was quite exhausted, and it required all my
strength to support him to the gunnel of the boat. After

210

TALES OF THE BORDEKS.

hanging on there some time, to recover breath, we swam
together to the beach, which was not far distant. When
we landed, he seated himself on a large stone, and remained
silent for some time, with his face buried in his hands.

" Douglas," said I, wondering at his long silence, " are
you hurt ?"

To my great surprise I heard low sobs, and saw the tears
trickling between his fingers. Thinking that he was
grieved at the loss of his boat, I said —

" Cheer up, man ! If the boat be lost, we will manage
among us to get another for you."

" 'Tisn't the boat, sir, 'tisn't the boat — we can soon raise
her again : it is your kindness that has made a fool of me."

He then looked up in my face, and, drying his glistening
cheek with one hand, he shook mine long and heartily with
the other.

" Mr Charles, before I met you, I thought I was alone
in the world ; shunned, by most around me, as a mans of
mystery. Because I could not join in their rude sports and
boisterous merriment, they attributed my reserve and
visible dejection to sinister causes — possibly to some horrible
and undiscovered crime." A blush here flitted across my
countenance ; but Douglas did not remark it. " Young, and
warm, and enthusiastic, you sought me out with different
feelings — you were attracted towards me by pity, and by a
generous desire to relieve my distress. It was not the mere
impulse of a moment ; your kindness has been constant and
unwavering — and now you have crowned all by saving my
life. I hardly know whether or not to thank you for what
was so worthless to myself; but I do thank you from the
bottom of my heart for the friendly and generous feeling
which actuated you. You shall know the cause of the
sorrow that weighs upon my heart ; I would not that one
to whom I owe so much, should look upon me with the
slightest shade of suspicion. I think, when you know my
story, you will pity and sympathize with me ; but you will
judge less harshly, I doubt not, than I do of myself."

" Do not call up unnecessary remembrances, which harrotv
your feelings, Douglas. That I have often thought there
is mystery about you, I will not deny ; but only once did the
possibility of a cause of guilt flash across my mind ; that
unworthy suspicion has long past, and I am now heartily
ashamed of myself for having harboured it for a moment,
But we are forgetting the boat ; we must try to get assist-
ance to right her."

We soon fell in with one of the fishermen on the coast,
with whose assistance she was speedily righted and baled
out ; and, after having done what we came for at Largs,
we returned homewards.

" Meet me to-morrow at ten o'clock, Mr Charles," said
Douglas, as he grasped my hand at parting, " and you
shall then hear my story, and judge whether or not I have
cause to grieve."

At the appointed hour next morning I hastened to the
rendezvous ; — the fisherman was already there, waiting for
me.

" I daresay you are surprised to see me here so soon," said
he ; " but now that I have determined to make you my
confidant, I feel eager to disburthen my mind, and to seek
relief from my sorrows in the sympathy of one whom I am
so proud to call my friend.

I was not always in the humble station in which you now
see me, Mr Stewart; but, thank heaven ! it was no misconduct
of my own that occasioned the change. My father was an
English clergyman, whose moderate stipend denied to his
family the luxuries of life ; but we had reason to acknowledge
the truth of the wise man's saying, that " a dinner of herbs,
where love is," is better than more sumptuous fare where
that love is not : we were a united and a happy family,
contented with the competence with which Providence had
blessed us, and pitying, not envying, those who, endowed

with greater wealth, were exposed to greater temptations.
Oh ! those happy, happy days ! It sometimes almost maddeni
me, Mr Stewart, to compare myself, as I am now, will
what I was then. Every morning I rose with a light ana
happy heart, exulting in the sunbeam that awakened me
with its smile, and blessing, in the gladfulness of youthful
gratitude, the gracious Giver of light and life. My heart
overflowed with love to all created beings. I could look back
without regret, and the future was bright with hope. And
now, what am I ? A broken-hearted man ; but still, after
all my sufferings, grateful to the hand which has chastened
me. 1 can picture the whole family grouped on a summer
evening, now, Mr Stewart, as vividly as a sight of yesterday,
though fifty years have cast their dark shadows between.
My mother, seated beside her work-table under the neat
verandah in front of our cottage, encouraging my sisters,
with her sweet smile and gentle voice, in the working of
their first sampler ; my father, seated with his book, under
the shade of his favourite laburnum tree ; while my brother
and I were trundling our hoops round the garden, shouting
with boyish glee ; and my little fair-haired cousin, Julia,
tottering along with her little hands extended, to catch the
butterfly that tempted her on from flower to flower. My
brother Henry was two years younger than myself, and was,
at the time I speak of, a remarkably handsome, active boy,
of ten years of age ; full of fun and mischief; unsteady and
volatile. My father found considerable difficulty in con-
fining Henry's attention to his studies; for, though uncom-
monly quick and intelligent, he wanted patience and appli-
cation. He could not bear the drudgery of poring over
musty books. He used to say to me — " How I should like
to be an officer, a gallant naval officer, to lead on my men
through fire and smoke to victory !" And then the little
fellow would wave his hand, while the colour flushed his
cheeks, and shout — " Come en ! come on ! " He had, some-
how or other, got possession of an old naval chronicle ; and
from that moment his whole thoughts were of ships and
battles, and his principal amusement was to launch little fleets
of ships upon the pond at the bottom of the garden. My
father, though mild and indulgent in other matters, was a
strict disciplinarian in education ; and often did I save Henry
from punishment by helping him with his exercises and
other lessons. Dearly did I love my gallant, high-spirited
little brother ; and he looked up to me with equal fondness.
I will not weary you with details ; but at once jump
over the next twelve years of my life. The scene was now
greatly changed at the parsonage : death had been busy
among its inmates ; a contagious disorder had carried off
my mother and sisters, and my poor father was left alone
in his old age — not alone, for Julia was still with him.
I forgot to say, before, that she was the orphan daughter
of his elder brother. Julia, at sixteen, was beautiful. I
will not attempt to describe her, although every feature,
every expression of her lovely countenance, is vividly pic-
tured in my heart. She was its light, its pride, its hope.
Alas ! alas ! she had grown up like a sweet flower beside
me, and, from her infancy, had clung to me with a sister's
confidence, and more than a sister's affection. Was it won-
derful that I loved her ? Yes, I loved her fondly and
devotedly ; and I soon had the bliss of knowing that my
affection was returned. I had been for some time at college,
studying for the church, when a distant relation died, and
left me a comfortable competency. My father now consented
with pleasure to my union with Julia ; and a distant day
was fixed for the marriage, to enable my brother Henry to
be present. He had been abroad for some time in the
merchant service, and his constant employment had prevented
his visiting home for many years ; but he had written to say
that he expected now to have a long holiday with us. At
length he returned ; and great was my joy at meeting mv
beloved brother once more. He was a fine, handsome, manly

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

211

looking fellow — frank and boisterous in his manner, kind
and generous in his disposition, but the slave of passion and
impulse. In a week after his return, he became dull and
reserved, and every one remarked the extraordinary change
that had come over him. My father and I both thought
that our quiet and monotonous life wearied and disgusted
him, and that he longed for the more bustling scenes to
which he had been accustomed. " Come, Harry ! " said I to
him one day, " cheer up, my boy ! we shall be merry enough
soon : you must lay in a fresh stock of spirits ; Julia
will quarrel with you if you shew such a melancholy phiz
at our wedding." lie turned from me with impatience,
and, rushing out into the garden, I saw no more of him that
day. I was hurt and surprised by his manner, and hast-
ened to express my annoyance to Julia. She received me
with less than her usual warmth, blushed when I talked of
my brother, and soon left me on some trifling pretext. My
father had gone to visit a neighbouring clergyman, at whose
house he was taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. I hastened
to his bedside, and found him in such a precarious state
that I determined upon remaining near him. I therefore
dispatched a messenger to Julia, informing her of my
intention, and intimating that it would be necessary to
postpone our marriage, which was to have taken place in
the course of a week, until my father's recovery. In
answer to my letter, I received a short and hurried reply,
merely acquiescing in the propriety of my movements,
and without any expression of regret at my lengthened
absence. Surprised at the infrequency and too apparent
indifference of Julia's answers to the long and impassioned
letters which I almost daily wrote to her, alarmed at the
Jong interval which, had elapsed since I last heard from
her, and fearing that illness might have occasioned her
silence, I left my father, who was rapidly recovering, and
hastened home. When I arrived at the parsonage, I
walked into the drawing-room ; but, as neither Julia nor
my brother was there, I concluded they were out walking,
and, taking a book, I sat down, impatiently waiting their
return. Some time having elapsed, however, without their
making their appearance, I rang the bell ; and our aged
servant, on entering, started at seeing me there.
" La, sir !" said she, " I did'nt expect to see you !"
" Where are Miss Julia and my brother ?"
" Why, la, sir ! I was just agoing to ask you. Miss
Julia had a letter from you about a week ago, and she and
Mr Henry went off in a poshay together next day. They
said they would be back to-day."

I said not a word in reply, but buried my face in my
folded arms on the table, while the cold perspiration flowed
over my brow, and my heart sickened within me, as the
fatal truth by degrees broke upon me.

" Fool, fond fool, that I was, to have been so long blind !"
muttered I ; " but it cannot be ! — Julia ! — my Julia ! — no,
no !" And I almost cursed myself for the unworthy suspicion.
But why dwell longer upon these moments of agony? My
first surmise was a correct one : in a week's time all was
known — my brother, my brother Harry, for whom I would
have sacrificed fortune, life itself, had betrayed my dearest
trust, and had become the husband of her I had fondly
thought my own. The blow'was too sudden and overpower-
ing ; I sunk beneath it ; my reason became unsettled, and,
for several months, I was unconscious of my own misery. I
awoke to sense, an altered man. My heart Avas crushed,
my very blood seemed to be turned into gall, I hated my
kind, and resolved to seclude myself for ever from a world
of falsehood and ingratitude. The only tie which could
hare reconciled me to life had been wrenched away from
me during my unconsciousness : my brother's misconduct;
had broken my father's heart, and I was left alone in the
world. I paid one sad visit to my father's grave, shed over
it bitter tears of sorrow and disappointment, and from that

hour to this I have never seen the home in which I passed
so many happy days. Some months afterwards, I received
a letter from a friend residing in Wales, of a very extra-
ordinary nature, requiring me instantly to visit him, and
stating that he had something of importance to communi-
cate to me. I knew the writer, and confided in him ; he had
known my misfortune, and wept with me over the loss of
my Julia and of my father. I hastened to him on the wings
of expectation ; and, when I arrived, was taken by him into
an inner apartment of his house, with an air of secrecy and
mystery.

" Have you yet recovered from the effects of your mis-
fortunes ?" said he. « I have often reflected on your extra-
ordinary fate, and pitied you from the innermost recesses of
my^soul. Would you believe it ?— I have in store for you an
antidote against the grief of your ruined affections ; but I
will not say a medicine for your pain, or a balm for youi
sorrow."

" For a broken heart," said I, " there is no cure in this
world."

He looked at me, and wept.

" Dress yourself in this suit of my mournings," he said,
ce and accompany me whither I will lead you."

I gazed at him in amazement ; but he left me to put on
the weeds, and to torture myself with vain thoughts.

He returned and called me out. I followed him. We
went some little distance, and joined a funeral that was
slowly proceeding to the burying-ground. My confusion
prevented me from looking at the time to see who was
chief mourner. I proceeded with the mourners, and SOOP
stood on the brink of the grave. When the pall was taken
off, and the coffin lowered down into the earth, my eye
caught the inscription on the plate ; it was " J. M., aged
20." " So young !" muttered I ; and at the same moment I
glanced at the chief mourner. Pie had withdrawn his hand-
kerchief from his face — our oyes met — he turned deadly-
pale, and made a motion as if to leave the ground ; but I
sprang forward, almost shrieking, " Henry !" and detained
him. I looked in his face. Oh, what a change was there !
His eye quailed beneath the cold, steady, withering glance
of mine. I felt that he read the meaning of that glance ;
for he absolutely Avrithed beneath it.

" Do not revile me, brother," murmured he ; " the hand
of heaven has been heavy upon me ; my crime has already
met with its punishment. Oh, my poor, poor Julia !"

" Where, where is she ?" wildly exclaimed I. He pointed
to the new-made grave !

Oh, the bitterness of that hour ! We wept — the betrayer
and the betrayed wept together over the grave of their
buried hopes. I arose calm and collected. " Brother," said
I, giving him my hand, " my animosity shall be buried with
her ; may your own heart forgive you as freely as I do the
injury you have done me ! But we must never meet more."
And, with slow steps and aching heart, I turned and left the
spot.

I received a letter from Henry some time afterwards
from one of the outports, telling me that he was just on the
point of leaving England for ever, and imploring my forgive-
ness in the most touching terms, " for the sake of our early
days, the happy years of our boyhood." Those early days —
those happy days ! — my heart softened towards him as I
thought of them. Sorely as he had wronged me, he was mv
brother still, and I felt that I could, if permitted, clasp him
to my heart once more.

Weary of life, and tired of the world, I dragged on a
miserable existence for some time, in a secluded situation
on the shores of Cornwall ; but, by degrees, the monotony of
my sedentary and recluse life wearied me. I ^began to
associate with the poor fishermen around me, and, in a short
time, became enthusiastically fond of their perilous and
exciting mode of life. The sea became to me quite a

212

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"passion" — my mind had found a new channel for its
energies; and when, a short time afterwards, I lost my little
fortune through the mismanagement or villany of my agent,
I took staff in hand, and, hastening to Liverpool, boldly
launched into life again as a common seaman, on board a
merchant vessel bound to the West Indies.

I had toiled on for several years as a common seaman,
during which time I attracted the notice of my captain, by
my indefatigable attention to the duties of my station, and
by the reckless indifference with which I lavished my
strength, and often risked my life, in the performance of
them.

" Douglas," (for that was the name which I had assumed,)
" Douglas," said the captain to me one day, after I had
been particularly active during a heavy gale we encountered,
" I must try if I cannot do something for you; your activity
and energy entitle you to promotion. I will speak to the
owners when we return, and endeavour to procure you a
mate's berth." I thanked him, and went forward again to
my duty. A few days afterwards, we were going along with
a strong beaming wind ; there was a high sea running, every
now and then throwing a thick spray over the weather
bulwarks ; the hands were at dinner, and I was just coming
up to relieve the man at the wheel ; there was no one on
deck but the mate of the watch, and the captain, who was
standing on the weather bulwark, shaking the backstays, to
feel if they bore an equal strain : all at once the ship gave
a heavy weather lurch, the captain lost his footing, and was
overboard in a moment. I instantly sprang aft, cut away
the life-buoy, and knowing that he was but an indifferent
swimmer, jumped overboard after him. As I said before, the
sea was running high, and a few minutes elapsed before I
caught sight of him rising on the crest of a wave, at some
distance from me. I saw he could not hold out long ; for he
was over-exerting himself, shouting and raising his hand for
assistance, and his face was pale as death. I struck out
desperately towards him, and shouted, when I got near him,
" Keep up your heart, sir ; be cool ; don't attempt to lay
hold of me, and, please God, I will save you yet." My advice
had the desired effect, and restored his self-possession; he
became more cool and collected, and with occasional support
from me, contrived to reach the life-buoy. In the meantime,
all was confusion on board the ship ; the second mate of the
watch, a young hand, in the hurry of the moment, threw the
ship too suddenly up in the wind, a squall struck her at the
moment, and the foretopmast and topgallantmast went
over the side, dragging the maintopgallantmast with them.
The cry of 'f A man overboard !" had hurried the crew on
deck, and the crash of the falling spars, and the contradictory
orders from the quarter-deck, at first puzzled and confused
them ; but the chief mate was a cool, active seaman, and the
moment he made his appearance order and silence were
restored ; the quarter-boat was instantly lowered, numbers of
the men springing forward to volunteer to man her, for the
captain was deservedly beloved by his crew ; and the rest of
the hands were immediately set to work to clear away the
wreck. In a few minutes the boat reached us, and we were
safely seated in the stern sheets.

" Douglas, my gallant fellow," said the captain, shaking
me cordially by the hand, " I may thank you that I am
not food for the fishes by this time. I had just resigned
myself to my fate, when your voice came over the water to
me, like a messenger of hope and safety. Plow can I ever
repay you ?"

" I am sufficiently repaid, Captain Rose, by seeing you
beside me ; the only way in which you can serve me, is by
giving me a lift in the way of promotion, when we return
home."

" I will, you may depend upon it," replied he ; " and as
long as I live, you may apply to me as a firm and faithful
friend."

I was highly gratified by this promise ; for the great object
of my ambition for some time past had been to raise myself
again from obscurity into something like my former station
in life. Next voyage, through the captain's interest with
the owners, I was appointed chief mate of the Albion,
Captain Rose's ship, for -which I was found duly qualified,
having employed all my spare hours at sea in acquiring a
knowledge of the theory of navigation. Captain Rose was
like a brother to me, introducing me to his family and
friends as the saver of his life, and making quite a lion of
me in Liverpool. We sailed in company with a large fleet,
under convoy of three frigates and two sloops of war, and
had been some time at sea, when a heavy gale of wind came
on one afternoon, which completely dispersed the convoy.
When it commenced there were nearly two hundred sail in
sight ; at the end of two days, we were alone. The Albion
was a beautiful vessel of her class, about four hundred tons
burden ; an excellent sea-boat. We had a smart, active
crew, besides a number of passengers, and were well
furnished for defence, if required ; but we were now so near
our port that we dreaded little danger. However, it was
necessary to be constantly on the alert, for there were many
piratical vessels in those seas, which, in spite of the vigilance
and activity of H.M. cruisers, were constantly on the watch
to pounce upon any stray merchantmen. Captain Rose was,
on the whole, rather pleased at his separation from the con-
voy, as there were only one or two other vessels, besides
himself, bound to the Havannah, and he would have been
obliged to accompany the body of the fleet to Barbadoes.
After we had parted from the convoy, we made the best of
our way towards Cuba. One night it was almost calm, but
with every appearance of a coming breeze ; the moon was
nearly at her full, but dark, heavy clouds were drifting
quickly over her, which almost entirely hid her from our
view, except when, at intervals, she threw from between
them a broad flash over the waters, as bright and almost as
momentary as lightning gleams. We were crawling slowly
along, with all our small canvass set ; the breeze was blow-
ing off the shore, the dark shadow of which lay like a
shroud upon the water ; it was nearly eight bells in the
first watch ; the captain and several of the passengers were
still on deck, enjoying the cool, delightful breeze ; but their
suspicious and anxious glances into the dark shadow to
windward, seemed to intimate that their conversation over
their grog that evening, which had been of the pirates that
infested those islands, and Cuba in particular, had awakened
their fears and aroused their watchfulness.

" Hark ! Captain Rose," said I, " what noise is that ?"

Every face was instantly turned over the weather gun-
wale, and in breathless silence they all listened in the direc-
tion to which I pointed. A low, murmuring, rippling sound
was heard, and a kind of dull, smothered, creaking noise
repeated at short intervals ; nothing was to be seen, how-
ever, for all was in deep shadow in that quarter.

" Talk of the devil, and he'll shew his horns, Douglas !'
said the captain. " I have not been so long at sea without
being able to distinguish the whispering of the smooth water
when a sharp keel is slipping through it, or the sound of
muffled sweeps. There may be mischief there, or there
may not ; but we'll be prepared for the worst. Get the men
quietly to their quarters, put an extra dose of grape into
the guns, and have all our tools ready."

Just at this moment the moonlight broke brightly through
the clouds, and shewed us a small, black-looking schooner,
slowly crawling out from the shadow of the land. Her decks
were apparently crowded with people, and she had a boat
towing astern. The men were soon at their quarters — and
a fine, active, spirited set of fellows they were — each armed
with a cutlass and a brace of pistols, while tomakawks and
boarding pikes lay at hand for use if required. The
passengers were all likewise provided with muskets, pistols,

TALES OF THE BORDERS

213

and cutlasses, and the servants were ready to load spare
fire-arms. We mustered about fifty in all ; but there was
not a flincher among us.

" Now, my lads/' said Captain Rose to his crew, " we
must have a brush for it. I have no doubt those fellows are
pirates ; and if once they get footing on this deck, I would
not give a farthing for any man's life on board. Be cool
and quiet. Don't throw away a shot ; remember that you
are fighting for your lives ; I do not doubt your courage,
but be cool and steady !"

In the meantime, the dark hull of the schooner was
gradually nearing us.

" Schooner ahoy !" shouted Captain Rose. No answer
but the sweeps dipped faster into the water, which rippled
up beneath her bow. " Schooner, ahoy ! — answer, or I'll fire !"
Still no reply ; but, almost immediately, a bright sudden
flash burst from her bow, and a shot came whizzing through
the mizzen-rigging.

"I thought so," calmly said the captain; "be cool, my
lads ; we must not throw away a shot ; he's hardly within
our range yet." The moon broke out for a moment. "Now,
my lads, take time, and a steady aim. Give it him !" And
flash, flash — bang, bang, went all our six carronades. The
captain's advice had not been thrown away ; the aim had
been cool and deliberate ; we heard the loud crashing of the
sweeps as the grape-shot rattled among them, and fell pat-
tering into the water ; and at the same time a yell arose from
the schooner, as if all the devils in hell were broke loose.
The next glimpse of moonlight shewed us her foretopmast
hanging over the side.

" Well done, my fine fellows !" shouted Captain Rose ;
" bear a hand, and give them another dose. We must keep
them at arm's length as long as we can." The schooner
had, by this time, braced up on the larboard tack, and was
standing the same way as ourselves, so as to bring her broad-
side to bear upon us ; and seemed to be trying to edge out
of the range of our guns.

' Oh, oh," said our gallant captain, " is that your play,
old boy ? You want to pepper us at a distance : that'll
never do. Starboard, my boy ! — So ! steady ! Now, my
lads, fire away !" — And again our little bark shook with the
explosion. The schooner was not slow in returning the
compliment. One of her shot lodged in our hull, and
another sent the splinters flying out of the boat on the booms.
Immediately after she fired, she stood away before the wind,
and, rounding our stern at a respectful distance, she crawled
up on the other side of us, as fast almost as if we had been
at anchor, with a wish apparently to cut off our escape in
that direction. But he was playing a deeper game. Along,
dark, unbroken cloud was passing over the moon, which
threw itsblack shadow over the water, and partially concealed
the movements of the pirate. When it cleared away
again, he was braced sharp up on the larboard tack, stand-
ing across our bows, with the intention of raking us.

" Starboard the helm ! — Brace sharp up ! — Bear a hand,
my fine fellows !" — And, before she had time to take advan-
tage of her position, the Albion again presented her broad-
side. The flash from the pirate's guns was quickly followed
by the report of ours, and we heard immediately the loud
clattering of blocks on board of her, as if some sail had come
down by the run. At this moment I thought I heard some
strange noise astern, and, running aft, I plainly distinguished
the sound of muffled oars, and; immediately after, saw a
small dark line upon the water.

"Aft, here, small-arm men !" shouted I.

" Boat, ahoy ! — Boat, ahoy !" — A loud and wild cheer rose
from the boat ; and the men in her, finding that caution
would no longer avail them, evidently redoubled their efforts
at their oars.

" Fire !" shouted the captain, while a blue light he had
just ignited threw a pale, unearthly glare over the ship's

tafferel, and shewed us our new and unexpected enemy.
It was the pirate's boat, which she had dropped during the
partial obscurity I spoke of, intending to board us a-head
herself, while the boat's crew attacked us astern. It was
fortunate that we happened to hear them — three minutes
more, and nothing could have saved us. There was a set of
the most ferocious looking desperadoes I had ever seen, arm-
ed to the teeth ; and the boat(a large one) was crowded with
them. Deadly was the effect of our fire. Four or five of
the men at the oars were tumbled over on their faces ; but
their places were instantly supplied by others, who, with loud
yells for revenge, bent desperately to their oars. In a few
minutes, the boat shot up under the mizen-chains, while the
bullets that were raining down upon them from above, only
made them more desperate. The living trampled upon the
dying and the dead, in their eagerness to board ; and, in a
thick swarm, the blood-thirsty scoundrels came yelling over
the bulwarks. A sharp and well-directed fire staggered
them for a moment, and sent several of them to their last
account. We now threw aside the muskets, for cutlasses
and tomahawks. Hand to hand, foot to foot, desperate and
deadly was the struggle.

" Down with them, my lads !" shouted Rose. " Hew the
blood-thirsty villains to pieces. No quarter ! no quarter ! —
shew them sunh mercy as they would shew you !"

Short and bloody was the conflict ; several of the pirates
had been killed, the deck was slippery with blood, and the
rest were keeping their ground with difficulty. I had a long
and severe hand-to-hand fight with one of them. We had
each received desperate wounds, when his foot slipped on
the bloody deck. I gave him a severe stroke on the head
with a tomahawk, and, after a deadly struggle on the gang-
way, tumbled him backwards overboard. The moon shone
bright out at the moment, and fell full upon his face.
Merciful heaven ! — my brain reeled, I staggered against a
gun, and became insensible — that face, Mr Stewart, haunts
my dreams to this hour with its ghastly, despairing expression.
It was the long-lost Henry's — I was my brother's murderer !
(Here the poor fellow hid his face in his hands, and groaned
with agony. I pitied him from my heart ; but I knew that
sorrow such as his " will not be comforted " in the moment
of its strength ; so I sat in silence beside him, till his first
burst of grief was over, and then I endeavoured calmly and
coolly to reason with him on the subject, and to persuade
him, by all the arguments I could think of, that he had no
cause to reproach himself with what had happened.)

It is kindly meant of you, Mr Stewart, (said he, mourn-
fully shaking his head) kindly meant, but in vain ! I
(know that I was only acting in self-defence — that it was life
! against life — that I was perfectly justified, in the eyes of
' men, in taking the life of him who would have taken mine — •
but I cannot drive that last despairing look from my memory.
I feel as if my brother's blood were crying out against my
soul. O my poor Harry ! would that the blow had fallen
onmyheadinstead of thine! — would that I had had time to tell
thee how fondly I loved thee, how freely I forgave thee !

But I beg pardon, Mr Stewart ; — I must go on with my
tale. Ten of the pirates were lying dead on the deck, and five
of our poor fellows ; the bodies of the former were immediately
thrown overboard, and the others were laid side by side a-mid-
ships, till we could find time to give them Christian burial.
Our last lucky shot had prevented the pirate from carrying
the other part of his scheme into effect : the moon was
now shining out full and clear, and by her light we saw that
her throat halyards had been shot away, and her mainsail was
flapping over the quarter ; there were hands aloft, reaving new
halyards, and busily employed about the mast-head, as if it
were crippled. 'We have 'had fighting enough for one bout,"
said Captain Rose; "we must run for it now." Our main
topgallantmast was hanging over the side, and our sails
were riddled with the schooner's shot ; she had evidently

214

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

been firing high, to disable us, that she might carry us by
boarding. We cracked on all the sail we could, served out
grog to the men, and lay down at our quarters. We were not
suffered to remain at peace long : the moment the schooner
perceived our intention, she edged away after us, and having
repaired her damage, set her mainsail again ; and, as the
wind was still light, with the assistance of her remaining
sweeps, came crawling up again in-shore of us. " Scoun-
drels !" muttered the captain, " they will stick to us like
leeches as long as there is a drop of blood left on board."

Again we saw the flash of her gun, and the smoke curling
white in the moonbeam. The shot told with fatal effect : our
maintopsailyard creaked, bent, and snapped in the slings, fall-
ing forward in two pieces.

The loud cheers of the pirate crew came faintly over the
water ; but our brave fellows, nothing daunted, responded to
them heartily.

" They have winged us, my lads ! " said our gallant cap-
tain ; " but we will die game at all events. " The men
answered him with another cheer, and swore they would go
to the bottom rather than yield. We blazed away at the
schooner, but in vain; she had been severely taught to respect
us ; our shot fell far short, while she, with her long metal,,
kept dropping shot after shot into us with deadly precision.
We tried to close with her ; but she saw her advantage, and
kept it ; all that we could do was to stand steadily on, the
men lying down under the shelter of the bulwarks. A faint
dull sound now fell upon our ears, like the report of a distant
gun. " Thank heaven!" said I, "our guns have spoken to some
purpose; some of the cruisers have taken the alarm." We
immediately burnt a blue light, and threw up a couple of
rockets. In a few minutes a shout of joy burst from the crew ;
a small glimmering star appeared in the distance, which
flickered for a moment, and then increased to a strong,
steady, glaring light ; at the same time, we heard a second
report, much nearer and clearer than before. Alarmed at
the near approach of the stranger, which was now distinctly
visible, standing towards us under a press of sail, the pirate,
determined to have another brush with us, bore up, and closed
with us. But we were prepared for him ; he was evidently
staggered by our warm reception ; and, giving us a parting
broadside, hove round, stood in under the dark shadow of the
land, and we soon lost sight of him.

The stranger proved to be II. M. sloop Porcupine. She
hove to when she neared us, and sent a boat on board. She
had heard the report of our guns, and hastened to the scene
of action, just in the very nick of time to save us. The
lieutenant complimented the captain and crew on their gallant
defence, and hastened on board the sloop again, to make his
report. The boat soon returned, with a gang of hands to
assist in repairing our damages ; and, on the evening of the
next day, we were safely at anchor. When the excitement
of the action was over, the pain of my wounds and the
agitation of my mind brought on a violent attack of fever.
During my delirium, the vision of my dying brother was ever
before me ; and in my madness I twice made an attempt upon
my own life. At length the goodness of my constitution
triumphed over the violence of my disorder ; but my peace of
mind was gone for ever. My worthy friend, the captain, to
whom I confided my story, did everything in his power
to rouse me from my sorrow, and to reconcile me to myself;
but in vain. The sight of my brother had recalled the vivid
recollection of by-gone scenes, which I had been for years
steeling my heart to forget ; my spirit was broken, I became
listless and indifferent, and no longer felt any interest in
my profession. I did my duty, to be sure ; but it was
mechanically — from the force of habit. Captain Rose was
ceaseless in his kindness. When, on our return home, I
expressed my determination not to go to sea again, he
represented my conduct during the action, and on other
occasions, in such glowing terms, to the owners, that they

settled a small annuity upon me, in consideration of the
wounds I had received in their service. It was with
the deepest regret I took leave of my worthy friend and
captain.

" I can never forget," said he, " that, but for you, my
children would have been fatherless, my wife a widow :
whenever you need the assistance of a friend, Douglas,
apply to me with as much confidence as to a brother."

He then offered to evince his regard in a more substantial
manner, which I firmly but gratefully declined. I wrote
to him afterwards, telling him that I had settled in this
neighbourhood, and requesting him to make arrangements
that my annuity might be made payable to a certain firm
in Glasgow. In reply, he wrote me a long and affectionate
letter. It was the first and last I ever had from him ; he
died soon afterwards. It is now five years since I took up
my abode here, and I feel the weakness and infirmities of
age creeping fast upon me. Oh ! how happily will I lay
down the weary load of life !"

" Douglas," said I, when he had finished his story,
" you certainly have had grievous sorrows and trials ; but
you have borne them nobly, except in wilfully attaching
the odium of crime to the unfortunate circumstances of your
brother's death."

" Would that I could think as you do !" said he.

We parted ; and four years elapsed before we met again.
I had, in the meantime, commenced practice as surgeon in
Glasgow, and my professional avocations kept me too con-
stantly employed to allow of my leaving the town. At last,
after a severe attack of illness, I was recommended to go to
the sea-side for a few months; and my thoughts immediately
recurred to my old friend. I took a lodging in Rothesay,
and next morning went down to the beach, where I saw the
old man just preparing to put off.

" Here I am again, Douglas," said I.

"• Sir !" replied he, looking at me at first doubtingly, for
illness had greatly reduced me. " Ah ! Mr Stewart, is that
you ? I thought you had forgotten me."

" Then you did me injustice, Douglas ; I have often and
often regretted that the pressure of business prevented my
visiting you again. By the by, I was reminded of you in
rather an extraordinary way lately."

" How was that, sir ?"

" On my way down here, a few days since, the steamer
touched at Greenock. I was standing on the quay when a
poor fellow, a passenger in a vessel just arrived, fell from
the gangway, and was taken up insensible. I immediately
bledhim ; and, seeing that he appeared to be seriouslyinjured,
I determined, as I had no other particular call upon my
time, to remain beside him till he recovered. I had him
carried to a small lodging in the neighbourhood, where he
soon partially recovered ; and, having prescribed for him,
I left him, desiring that I might be sent for if any change
took place. During the night he had a violent attack of
fever. I was sent for : when I arrived, I found him deliri-
ous ; he was raving about Cuba, and ships, and pirates,
and fifty other things that immediately recalled you to my
remembrance. When he came to his senses again —

" ' Doctor ! tell me the truth,' said he : ' am I not
dying ?'

" ' No,' replied I ; ' your present symptoms are favour-
able ; everything depends upon your keeping your mind
and body quiet.'

" e Quiet mind !' muttered he, with a bitter smile on his
countenance. ' It is not that I fear death, doctor ; I think
I could willingly depart in peace, if I had but been allowed
time to find the person whom I came to Scotland in search
of.'

" ' And who is that ?'

" ' A fisherman at Rothesay.'

•'He mentioned the name; but ^t this moment I forget it

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

215

Let me see — it was — ay, it was Ponsonby — Charles Pon-
sonby."

Douglas started, and turned pale.

" Ponsonby !" exclaimed he ; " that was my name, my
father's name ! Who can he be ? Perhaps some old ship-
mate of poor Harry's. I will go directly and see him."
And he turned as if to depart.

" Gently, gently, my friend," said I, detaining him ; " I
must go with you. When I left the poor fellow under the
charge of a medical man at Greenock, he was greatly better ;
but he had received some severe internal injury, and he
cannot live long. A sudden surprise might hasten his
death. I must go with you, to prevent accidents."

We went on board the next steamer that started, and in
two hours were landed at Greenock. I led the way to the
small lodging in which I had left my patient ; and leaving
Douglas at the door, went in to inquire into the state of
the sufferer's health, and to prepare him for his visiter. I
found him asleep; but his was not the slumber that refreshes —
the restless and unquiet spirit within was disturbing the
rest of the fevered and fatigued body. His flushed cheek
lay upon one arm, while his other was every now and then
convulsively raised above his head, and his lips moved
with indistinct mutterings.

" He is asleep," said I to Douglas ; <c we must wait till
he awakens."

" Oh, let me look at him," said he ; " it can do no harm.
He must be an old shipmate of poor Harry's ; perhaps he
has some memento of him for me."

" Very well," said I ; "you. may come in ; but make as
little noise as possible."

We walked gently up to the bed ; Douglas looked ear-
nestly at the sleeper, and, suddenly raising his clasped
hands, he exclaimed—

" Merciful heaven ! it is Henry himself !"

The poor patient started, with a wild and fevered look.

" Who called me ? I thought I heard Charles' voice !
Where am I? Give way in the boat ! — oh, spare me, spare
me, Charles ! — Fire ! — Down with them ! Hurra !" — And,
waving his hands above his head, he sunk down again on
his bed, exhausted.

He soon fell into a deep slumber, which lasted for some
hours. I was sitting by his bedside when he awoke.

" How do you feel now ?" said I.

" O doctor ! I am dying. I have been dreaming : I
thought I heard the voice of one I have deeply injured — nay.
I dreamt I saw him ; but changed, how changed ! — and
I — I have been the cause of it."

Here he was interrupted by the smothered sobs of poor
Douglas, or Charles, as I now must call him.

"\Vho is that? there is somebody else in the room," said
he ; and, drawing the curtain aside, he saw his brother.
" Then it was no dream ! O Charles I" and, turning round,
he buried his face in the pillow. Douglas sprang forward,
and, throwing himself on the bed, gave way to a violent
burst of emotion.

" Henry ! dear Henry ! look at me — it is your brother,
Henry !"

The dying man groaned. "I cannot look you in the face,
Charles," said he, " till you say you have forgiven me."

" Forgiven you !" replied the other ; " bless you ! bless
you, Henry ! if you did but know the load of remorse that
the sight of you has relieved me from ! Thank heaven, I
was not your murderer !"

"Andean you forget the past, Charles?" said Henry.
" Do not my ears deceive me ? Do you really forgive
me?"

"Freely, fully, from my heart !" was the reply; " the joy
of meeting you again, even thus, repays me for all I have
suffered."

" O Charles !" again ejaculated Henry, " you were

always generous and forgiving ; but this is more than I
expected from you."

I was now going to leave the room ; but my patient,
noticing my intention, begged me to remain.

"Stay, doctor, and listen to my confession ; concealment
is no longer necessary, for I feel that the hand of death is
upon me, and that, in a few short hours, my career of sin,
and shame, and sorrow, will be at an end."

" My poor fellow," said I, " I have heard the first part of
your story from your brother ; you had better defer the
remainder till you have recovered from your present agi-
tation ; I will come again to-morrow."

" To-morrow, sir !" said he ; " where may I be before to-
morrow ? Oh, let me speak now, while time and strength
are allowed. It will do me good, sir ; it will relieve my
mind, and be a comfort to my troubled spirit."

Feeling that he was right, I seated myself, while he thus
commenced his tale : —

" You remember, Charles, our last sad parting — when
we stood"

" Mention it not, Harry !" groaned his brother — " there
is agony in the recollection. Poor Julia !"

" When I left you, I was maddened with sorrow and
remorse ; all night long I wandered about in a state of
distraction, and, when morning dawned, I fell down by the
roadside, overcome with fatigue and misery. How long I
lay I know not ; when I awoke, the sun was high in the
heaven ; and, during one brief moment of forgetfulness, I
rejoiced in his brightness. Alas ! it was but for a moment ;
my guilty love, my treachery, my loss, all flashed upon my
mind at once, and I started to my feet, and hurried madly
onwards, as if 1 hoped, by the rapidity of my movements, to
escape from my own thoughts. Hunger at last compelled
me to enter a small public-house, where I fell in with a
poor sailor who was on his way to Liverpool in search of a
ship. The sight of this man turned my thoughts into
another channel. 'Double-dyed traitor that I am,' muttered
I, ' England is no longer a home for me. She for whose
love I broke a father's heart and betrayed a brother's
confidence, has been torn from me ; and what more have I to
live for here ?' My mind was made up.

"• ' My lad,' said I to the sailor, ' if you have no objection,
we will travel together ; I am bound to Liverpool myself.'

" ' With all my heart,' said he ; ' I like to sail in com-
pany.'

" I engaged to work my passage out before the mast, in a
ship bound to Jamaica, intending to turn my education to
some account there if possible, or, at all events, to remain
there as long as my money lasted. When I saw the shores
of my native land sink in the distance, I felt that I was a
forlorn and miserable outcast; that the last link was severed
that bound me to existence. A dark change came over me;
a spirit of desperation and reckless indifference ; a longing
wish to end my miseries at once. I strove against the evil
spirit ; and for a while succeeded. On our arrival at King-
ston, I endeavoured in vain to obtain employment ; my
stock of money was fast decreasing ; and when that was
gone, where was I to turn for more ? Poverty and wretch-
edness threatened me from without ; remorse was busy
within. ' Why should I bear this weary load of life ?' said
I, as I madly paced the shore, ' when one bold plunge
would bury it for ever ?'

' ' I threw myself headlong into the water ; and, though an
excellent swimmer, I resolutely kept my face beneath the
surface ; yes ! with desperate determination, I strove to
force myself into the presence of that dread Being whom I
had so grievously offended. When I came to my senses
again, I was lying on a part of the beach I was unacquainted
with ; a tall, handsome, dark-featured young man, was
bending over me, and, within a few yards of where I lay, a
small light boat was drawn up on the shore.

216

TALES Ol'1 THE BORDERS.

'•' • So you have opened your eyes at last, my friend,' said
the man ; 'you have had a narrow squeak for it. When I
dragged you out of the water like a drowned rat, I thought
all was over with you. Have you as many lives as a cat, that
you can afford to throw away one in such a foolish manner?'
" ' Life ! I am sick of it,' answered I,
" ' Well/ said he, ' if that is the case, why not throw it
away like a man, among men ? Come with me, and 1 will
furnish you with active employment to drive the devil out
of your mind. But here, before we start, take some of the
cordial to cheer you.'

" I was chilled and exhausted, and took a hearty draught.
I felt its warmth steal through my frame — it mounted to my
brain — I laughed aloud ; I felt that I was equal to any act
of desperation. Alas ! I little knew the snare I was falling
into. We launched the boat and sprang into it ; and my
companion, seizing the oars, pulled rapidly along the beach.
After rowing some distance, we saw a light glimmering
amid the bushes ; it was now nearly dusk ; my companion
lay on his oars, and gave a long, low, peculiar whistle, which
was immediately answered. He then ran the boat ashore ;
two men sprang in, who relieved him at the oars ; and we
again held on our way. There was a great deal of convers-
ation carried on in a low tone ; and from what I heard of it,
half tipsy as I was, I inferred that my companion, whom
the other men addressed with great respect, was a naval
officer on some secret duty. Just as we were crossing the
mouth of a narrow creek, a light four-oared gig dashed out
after us, a voice hailed us in English to lie on our oars, and,
when we still held on our course, a musket ball whizzed
over us, to enforce obedience.

" ' The piratical rascals !' exclaimed the young man ; ' if
they lay hold of us, we are all dead men. Here !' continued
he, seizing a musket, which lay in the stern sheets, and
giving me another, ' fire for your life !'

" I was half mad with fever, and the effects of my late
draught ; and, under the persuasion that our lives were in
danger, I fired. The bowman of the gig fell, and we rapidly
left her. We came at last to a narrow lagune, close to the
low shore of which lay a small schooner at anchor, with sails
bent, and every preparation for a start.

" ' Welcome on board the little Spitfire, my man !' said
the young stranger ; ' we want hands — will you ship ?'
" 'What colours do you sail under ?' replied I.
" ' Oh, not particular to a shade/ said he ; ' any that
happens to suit us for the time being : black is rather a
favourite.'

" ' Black !' exclaimed I ; ' I thought you were king's men.
I won't go with you.'

" ' It is too late, my lad — go you must ! Besides, there is no
safety for you on shore now ; you shot one of the crew of
the cruiser's gig, and they will have life for life, depend
upon it.'

" The whole horror of my situation now burst upon me.
f was in a fearful strait ; but I made up my mind at once, to
deceive the pirates, by appearing to be contented with my
situation, and to take advantage of the first opportunity that
presented itself to escape.

" ' Well/ said I, ' if that's the case, I had better die
fighting bravely like a man, than hang like a dog from the
yard-arm of a man-of-war.'

" ' Bravely said, my hearty !' replied the young leader ;
1 but we must be moving — the blue jackets will be after us ;
that shot of yours will bring the whole hornet's nest about
our ears.'

" We got under way ; and, after rounding the east end of
Jamaica, we stood away for the Cuba shore. The very
first time we came to an anchor, I made an attempt to
escape ; I had saved part of my provisions for some days
before, and concealed it in readiness to take with me. We
were lying close to the shore, and the darkness of the night

would, I thought, conceal my movements ; I was just slipping
over the schooner's side, to swim ashore, when I felt a touch
upon my shoulder, and, turning round, a dark lantern
flashed in my face, and I saw the young pirate standing
beside me. He held a cocked pistol to my head. ' One
touch of this trigger/ said he, ' and you would require no
more looking after. My eye has been upon you all along ;
you cannot escape me ; do not attempt it again — the con-
quences may be fatal.'

" From that hour 1 was aware that I was constantly and
narrowly watched. Except in the one instance of the gig's
man, whom I had fired at under a delusion, it was my good
fortune as yet to have escaped imbruing my hands in blood.
During the action with the Albion, I was sent in the boat
under the particular charge of the mate. ' Keep your eye
on this fellow/ said the captain ; ' if he flinches for a
moment, blow his brains out instantly ; we must glue him
to us with blood. I will keep her in play till you creep
alongside ; and, once on board, cut every one down before
you — give no quarter.'

" My blood ran cold at this horrible order, and I deter-
mined upon doing all in my power to counteract its execu-
tion. I was delighted when you discovered our approach
and the blue light flashed from youi stern ; for I dreaded the
scene of massacre that must have ensued, if we had boarded
you unawares. I sprang on deck with the rest, in hopes that
I might be able to prevent some bloodshed ; but, when I was
violently attacked, my passions were aroused, and I fought
desperately for my life. Just as you tumbled me over the
gangway, the gleam of moonshine shewed me your face. I
recognised you immediately; and, when I rose to the surface of
the water again after my plunge, I blessed heaven that 1 had
been spared the guilt of murder. I reached the boat, which
was still hanging under your quarter, cut the painter, and,
in the confusion, escaped unnoticed. I immediately made
for the shore; and, after many hair-breadth escapes from my
old associates, I volunteered on board one of the cruisers on
the Jamaica station. At length she returned home, the
crew were paid off, and I determined to seek you out. On
inquiring at the office of the owners of the Albion, in
Liverpool, they told me that the late chief mate had settled,
some years before, in the neighbourhood of Rothesay, in the
Isle of Bute, and was still alive. Thank heaven ! I have
found you at last ! I should like to live, Charles, to prove
to you my sorrow and repentance for the past ; but, as heaven
has willed it otherwise, the blessed assurance of your for-
giveness will lighten death of half its terrors."

The poor fellow breathed his last a few days afterwards.
Douglas mourned long and deeply for his brother's death ;
but, after time had soothed his grief, he became quite an
altered man. His mind and spirits recovered their elasticity,
after the load which had so long weighed them down, was
removed. He did not resume his own name ; but lived
many years afterwards, contented and happy, in the humble
station of a fisherman ; and it was not till after his death
that his old companions discovered how justly the name
of " Gentleman Douglas" had been applied to him. His
tombstone bore the simple inscription, "Charles Douglas
Ponsonby, eldest son of the late Reverend T. Ponsonby."

I often wander, in the calm summer evenings, to the
quiet churchyard, and return a sadder, but, I hope, a better
man, after meditating upon the troublous and adventurous
life, and peaceful and Christian death of the ROTHESAY
FISHERMAN.

WILSON'S

SFrairitumarg, anlr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE WRITER'S DAUGHTER.

Come, I will bless thee, gentle- Death,
For all I can resign is breath. — Anon.

NOTWITHSTANDING of all that has been said or sung about
the miseries of life, and of the acknowledged dictum o:
criticism, that poetry is exaggerated nature, it may well be
questioned whether all the efforts of the greatest genius
ever achieved by mere description the adequate expression
of so much suffering as may be pressed into the life of one
single child of misfortune. The real miseries of life are
generally secret, " sad hoarded treasure," while the sym-
pathies of mankind are claimed by public calamities, (whose
publicity is often their cure,) and exhausted to the exclu-
sion of a portion of relief to the victim who trembles lest
her sorrow should be known. Yet, even here there is " a
mercy in the chastisement ;" for had misery the tongue of
utterance possessed by other states of mind, the world
would be a Babel of mournful cries, and the inhabitants like
so many Dantes listening with racked ears to the wails of
the condemned in the region of lamentation. A small
portion of this "secret sorrow" is exposed in the following
tale of real life.

Henrietta Graham inherited a considerable property in
the county of Berwick. Her father died while she was
an infant, and the heiress was reared by her remaining
parent with a blind indulgence, which, though not develop-
ing any of the darker shades of character, encouraged that
obstinate self-determination which, in the most important
step of her life, could not be counteracted, either by threats
or by the most powerful appeals to her softer affections.
When she was about eighteen years of age, a young man
from Edinburgh commenced practice as a writer or attorney

in C , a country town near which she resided; and being

handsome and frank, with an air of easy consequence, pecu-
liar to his grade in the Scottish metropolis, it may be easily
surmised that many of the country belles were assiduous
in their endeavours to attract his notice. Mina Dawson,
the blooming daughter of the village surgeon, at first
appeared likely to carry off the prize ; and public gossip
was better justified than usual, by his being seen walking
with her on the banks of the Tweed, or across the fields to
the old churchyard in the neighbourhood. It was even
reported (and what greater evidence of love could be
required ?) that she was selected to be his partner at the
farmers' ball on the approaching Friday. Friday came, and,
maugre gossip, Henrietta Graham was led to her place in
the contre-dance by the much admired stranger. Poor
Mina Dawson ! — while her heart throbbed with anguish, and
bitter tears sprang from her sparkling eyes at this marked
neglect, how little conscious was she that, in after years,
she might have reason to bless what appeared a calamity !
The truth was, that Mr Erskine had been for some weeks

a resident in C , before he became acquainted with the

pecuniary merits of the surrounding candidates for his
favour ; and, though Mina's beauty had first attracted him,
his heart was formed of that plastic material which can
receive any impression par convenience. Henrietta was
plain in her appearance, (though, as far as expression con-
stitutes beauty, she was its possessor,) and she had, there-
132. Vot III.

fore, interested him little ; but, as soon as he discovered the

• i i» i * ow**. no *AC; UIQV/U VCI CU. Ill

weightier charms of her patrimony, he was converted into a
fervent and unwearied suitor. His attentions were success.
u; and, in a few months from the period of their first
acquaintance, she became his wife, in opposition to the
reiterated expostulations of her mother. Henrietta's dis-
obedience had displeased her ; yet she could not finally
resolve to live apart from her daughter— and so, with a heavy
heart, she let out her pleasant property as a farm, and
rejoined her at the house of her husband."

For some years, business seemed to go on tolerably well ;
and, if not an attentive, Mr Erskine was, at least, not an
unkind husband. Yet, their intercourse was always marked
by an unsocial reserve on his part ; and, while the young
wife, with every act of tenderness, strove to render his fire-
side agreeable to the man for whom she had violated her
first duty, she had always a secret misgiving that he felt
happier elsewhere. But still heavier distress impended
over her. A blunder which Mr Erskine had committed in
preparing a bond for one of his clients, involved him in a
serious pecuniary loss; all Mrs Graham's accumulations
had to be drawn from their repositories for his relief ; while
the circumstance having, unfortunately, been made public,
his business gradually diminished. Still the rent of the
property was sufficient for the comfortable support of the
family, and enabled Mrs Erskine to give her eldest daughter
(many years senior to the two younger children) all the
advantages of an Edinburgh boarding-school education.

Mr Erskine having made one descent, realized the
aphorism of the accumulation of evils : his judgment,
which had never been strong, became at length so injured,
by tendencies to inebriety, that he was often led into im-
prudent speculations, and finally involved himself to such
an extent that the sale of the property becameindispensable;
and the circumstances under which this was effected hap-
pened to be so disadvantageous, that, when the creditors
were satisfied, a few pounds only remained at his disposal.
Compunction, for the first time, now seemed to visit his
breast, as he contemplated the scene of desolation which
his imprudence had created : his wife wept in the arms of
her mother, but did not upbraid him; his daughter, Isabella,
who had been summoned from all the elegancies of one of
the first boarding schools in Edinburgh, to her desolate
home, looked with terror and amazement, alternately, at
both her parents ; and the younger children hung at thei
mother's knee, sobbing in sympathy, while he, pacing the
room, execrated his conduct, and declared that he would
henceforth be a changed man. During the ensuing fort,
night, a complete reform seemed to have taken place in his
dissolute habits ; and Mrs Erskine used to revert to this
brief period of her married life, as one of which she had
the most touching recollections.

This apparent amendment was as fallacious as the rest
of his conduct. One fine April day, as he sat gazing list-
lessly from the window, at what was passing in the street,
he suddenly exclaimed —

" I must leave you, Henrietta ; I cannot remain any
longer a burden upon you. Can I see every one busy on this
spring day — every one but myself — and not wish to be where
my errors' are unknown ? Yes !" he continued, striking his

218

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

clenched hand upon his forehead, '* the very sound of the
hammering at the new meeting goes to my heart ! There
is work for every one but me — I must seek my fortune in
another place. O Henrietta ! how can I look upon your
changed face, and not feel myself a villain ! You have never
upbraided me by words ; but that pale cheek is torture to
a diseased conscience."

It was in vain that his weeping wife assured him that all
his former errors would be amply compensated by his future
conduct. He said no more on the subject; but, some time
afterwards, he quitted the house at dawn of day. A pair of
scissors were found on the pillow of his infant daughter ;
and a few stray hairs adhering to them, proved that his last
act had been to take a ringlet, as the only treasure he had
to carry into exile.

From this time, the support of her family devolved prin-
cipally on the young and energetic Isabella, who put into
requisition for this meritorious service all those elegant ac-
complishments which she had acquired for the mere embel-
lishment of life ; and I have often thought that the entire
selflessness evinced in the conduct of this amiable creature
arose from a perception of duty peculiar to Scotland. I have
heard my mother mention, among many similar facts, that
a servant girl, who lived with her, did not, for the space of
eight or nine years, purchase a new gown for herself, in order
that her wages might support a bed-ridden mother.

At a leisure hour, Isabella would occasionally mingle in
the evening parties of the village, where her society was
thought an important acquisition, as her superior education,
her extensive reading, and practical knowledge of human
nature, derived from early subjection to misfortune, rendered
her altogether different from the general class of young
ladies ; and I never received so strong an impression during
a first interview with any one, as with her. She was then
a tall, handsome girl, with features beautifully regular, and
strongly expressive of sensibility ; and a grace and quiet
elegance, which I have seldom seen equalled, pervaded her
whole manner. Her language, too, was different from that
of her occasional associates ; and the mellow tones of her
voice seemed peculiarly adapted for the music of her native
land. She had just sung " The Flowers of the Forest," with
a pathos which, filled many eyes with tears, when I seated
myself beside her, remarking —

" You are fond of music ?"

" Of songs I am," she replied, blushing slightly at the
sudden address.

" There is no class of songs," I rejoined, " so much to
my taste as that of which you have just favoured us with
the finest specimen — it blends the mind with ancient times
and ancient feelings so completely as to suspend all atten-
tion either to the present or the future. ' Gilderoy' is also a
great favourite of mine."

" The air is fine," she said ; (e but do you not think that
the depravity of the object mourned interrupts the train of
purifying reflections which music of the highest order
naturally inspires ? I admire only those," she continued —
her fine features irradiated with a sudden glow of enthusi-
asm— " which abstract the mind from the contemplation of
whatever is debasing."

I was about to advert to the different classes of Scottish
music, when my fair companion was requested by Dr
Dawson to sing his favourite ballad, «' Auld Robin Gray,"
which she did with the strongest expression of feeling; and
I certainly never saw this fine emanation of genius produce
a more thrilling effect.

Years passed on, and Isabella Erskine, at the age of
twenty- four, was on the point of marriage. Charles Allan,

son of the late minister of C , had loved her from

childhood ; and, having obtained a situation in London,
yielding a handsome income, he had offered her his hand,
and was accepted. Such, however, was the benignity of

her nature, that it is very doubtful if she would have con-
sented to leave her mother, had she not, by her virtuous
industry, realized a sum sufficient to establish her two
younger sisters in a respectable situation, for which a lady,
who was on the point of retiring from it, had agreed to
accept a small equivalent.

It was now within a week of the time appointed for
Isabella's marriage, and she had gone to spend a day or
two with a friend in the country, when, one evening, as
her mother and grandmother were sitting alone in the par-
lour, a slight tap came to the outer door. Mrs Erskine
opened it, and a man in tattered regimentals stood before
her.

" Henrietta, do you not know me ?" said the stranger ;
and, to her utter astonishment, she recognised her hus-
band.

Kindly was he welcomed. The best in the house was
placed on the table ; clothes that he had left were brought
to him ; and, before the two younger girls returned, he had
assumed something like a respectable appearance. Mr
Erskine, however, made no allusion either to his past or his
present situation; and, notwithstanding the evident restraint
he was putting on himself, his conversation was interlarded
with so many oaths of the most appalling description, that
Mrs Erskine felt a shuddering reluctance to make any in-
quiry. There was another circumstance, too, that almost
froze her blood. When Agnes, the youngest girl, from
whose head he had taken the hair, came into the room, he
merely cast an abrupt and fugitive glance on her, and shook
her coldly by the hand. In the course of the evening, he
inquired for Isabella ; and Mrs Erskine, thinking this a
good opportunity for appealing to the better part of his
nature, dilated upon the exertions she had made for the
support of the family, and the undeviating tenderness with
which she had always regarded him.

" Even the trinket box which you gave her," continued
she, " is still used for the same purpose as it was when she
was ten years old."

No trace of feeling, however, was visible on his rigid
features, as she spoke on this or any other subject relating
to their mutual interest; and when, at midnight, the
family were about to retire to rest, he called for more liquor,
declaring that he would not go to bed that night. His
reason for this was soon obvious. He left the house early
the next morning; and it may be imagined how stunned Mrs
Erskine was by his sudden disappearance, more particularly
as she felt an ominous conviction, from the dreadful change
which had evidently passed upon his character, that he would
never return.

It was late in the evening when Isabella returned home,
glowing with all the buoyancy of realized hope ; and, im-
mediately afterwards, went to the drawer where the box
which contained her hoard had been deposited, wishing to
take out a trinket : but what was her dismay, when, on
raising the lid, she found, instead of the parcel of bank notes
and trinkets, nothing but empty space !
" Mother," she exclaimed, "have you removed the money?"

The fearful truth burst upon the mind of Mrs Erskine —
who now informed Isabella of her father's visit, of his
determination to sit up all night, and of his disappearance in
the morning. Isabella made no remark, but merely said
she would take a short walk, to allay her agitation. The
night was cold ; but the boisterous wind was unheeded by
Isabella, who could only think of her degraded father, and
the disgrace that would accrue to Charles Allan from such
an ignominious connection. She sat down upon a mound of
earth near the river side, where, regardless of the rain, which
fell heavily, she remained for a considerable time. When
she returned home, her clothes were completely drenched,
and all means were used to avert the bad effects to be
apprehended from such imprudence ; but in vain . She v/as

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

219

dreadfully ill all night ; and at an early hour next morning,
a medical gentleman was summoned, who pronounced her
to be in a brain fever. The fever, in a few days, subsided ;
but a decided aberration of reason ensued. Such was her
situation when Charles Allan arrived ; and his anguish may
be conceived, though not described. He lingered in the
neighbourhood for several weeks, and was at length informed
that poor Isabella's reason appeared to have returned, as
her lucid intervals had gradually been lengthening for the
last few days ; and, as she had now been quite collected for
twelve hours, he gained admittance to her apartment, and
cautiously approached the large arm-chair on which she
reclined. Her face did not retain a vestige of colour, except
a small hectic spot on the centre of each cheek, while her
whole appearance indicated utter helplessness. She smiled
as Charles approached, and extended her hand, murmuring
his name. He seated himself by her side, took her wasted
hand in his, and she suffered him to draw her head on his
shoulder.

" O Charles," she said, " I thought I should never see
you again ; I feared that you too had forgotten me. I have
prayed for you — longed for you — sent for you — and you
would never come. O, Charles, why is this ? Do you
know," whispered she, " no one loves me now ? Every
one is unkind to me. They confine me to bed — they put
cords on my wrists. Look !" — and she raised the sleeve
of her wrapping gown — " oh, look !" And he saw with horror
her delicate wrist stained with blood, which had been occa-
sioned by necessary restraint. Repeatedly did he press the
wounded hand to his heart, his broAV, and his lips ; and
while he did so, he saw a tear drop upon her breast. " O
Charles," she faintly said, after a considerable pause, " I
have been ill of late. Sometimes I think my senses have
wandered, and that I have spoken harshly to my mother.
But I shall be well now, since you are with me." She lay
a considerable time perfectly still, then, starting up abruptly,
exclaimed — " Did I not tell you that Charles Allan would
never come again — that he is dead — and that I shall
never see him more ?"

With these words, she threw herself upon the floor in a
violent paroxysm of tears — and vainly did he endeavour to
recall her to recollection. She knew him not, she pushed
him aside, looking around as if expecting some one else, at
the same time imploring that Charles Allan of her disordered
fancy to come and preserve her from death. Charles called
for assistance, and with a feeling of anguish almost amounting

to frenzy rushed from the house. The next day he left C

and, though he continued to correspond with Mrs Erskine for
the ensuing nine months of Isabella's insanity, he never
hinted at the mere probability of making her his wife — the
scene he had witnessed having left an impression of terror on
his mind which could not be effaced.

Mrs Erskine's unwearied cares were,at length, rewarded by
the recovery of her daughter, who, though she never again
was cheerful — though she never again sang any of her favour-
ite Scottish airs, and rejected every invitation to enter into
society — resumed her former employment with renewed
industry ; an unvaried placidity of countenance taking place
of her former animated expression. Like most people in a
similar situation, it was long before she reverted to her late
disorder ; and no one could know if she were conscious of it.
Upon an y unreasonable display of temper in an employer, she
would, in place of expostulating, as she used to do, mildly reply
— Cl I am very sorry indeedthat such and such does not please —
but I shall endeavour to rectify the fault." And any petulant
remark of her sisters, to whom her recent loss of reason (for
such is the coarseness inherent in some natures) rendered her
an object of lurking contempt, she never failed to receive in
the same unrepining manner. Her mother and grand-
mother were, however, still more intensely solicitous to
promote her comfort than formerly ; and the tears she

v/ould secretly shed at these unwearied demonstrations of
tenderness, were, if possible, more painful than all the
humiliations she endured. A friend who visited the family,
after having repeatedly witnessed the meekness with which
she conducted herself under the most grievous provocations,
said to her —

" I am astonished thab you can bear all those things so
patiently."

" Ah !" she replied, after a moment's pause, as if to
suppress a rising emotion, « you do not consider my
peculiar situation. What are all these petty annoyances in
comparison to what might again befall me, should I give way
to them ! I could humbly submit to any sorrow, if reason
were spared to me; for then I can feel that there is a
merciful purpose in every chastisement."

She had never mentioned Charles Allan since her recovery ;
but sometimes, as she sat working by the sick-bed of her
mother, she would gaze at her wistfully upon any recurrence
to past years. And once, when Mrs Erskine had inadvert-
ently half pronounced his name, she calmly said — •

" Mother, do not be alarmed — I am equal to hear all.
What of Charles Allan ?"

Her mother vainly evaded a reply ; but, resolute in this
as yielding in every other respect, Isabella urged her
inquiry ; and Mrs Erskine was under the necessity of stating
to her, though in as softened a manner as possible, that the
affection of Charles Allan for her had appeared gradually to
decay, and that he had sailed for India ; concealing, how-
ever, the announcement which he had made of his previous
marriage. From this moment it could not be perceived,
either by word or action, that the unfortunate Isabella
retained a single recollection of her cold-hearted lover ; and
she continued her regular, quiet habits of industry, until a
sad and mournful event roused to agony all the more intense
feelings of her heart.

Mrs Erskine had been for many months almost confined
to bed, and it was at last decided that her disorder was of
so dreadful a nature as to render an immediate operation
necessary. The complaint originated in a circumstance
which, fortunately, never reached the ears of her daughter —
namely, a violent stroke she had inflicted in the course of
her insanity.

The day of trial arrived ; and such was the power of
maternal affection over the physical weakness of Mrs Ers-
kine, that the fearful operation was completed without the
utterance of even a suppressed groan, lest any expression of
agony from her might have a prejudicial effect on the mind
of her daughter. Alas, for the mild, enduring Christian !
She died in the course of ten days— rand Isabella still retained
her reason.

After her mother's death, Isabella had occasion to
examine some papers in her escritoire, and found, among
others, the letters which Charles Allan had written concern-
ing herself. The first evinced the most intense anxiety for
the issue of her illness, and described, in an affecting man-
ner, his utter loneliness of heart. But each succeeding
communication grew colder and colder ; and even when her
complete restoration had been announced to him, he merely
congratulated Mrs Erskine on the event — expressed a hope
that Isabella's reason might never again be suspended —
and concluded with stating that having procured an ap-
pointment in India, he Avas about to embark. A news-
paper lay beside this last letter, and contained, in the
list of marriages, the following: — " Last Friday, at St
Stephen's Church, by the Rev. Josiah Lambert, Charles
Allan, Esq., Royal Engineers, to Anna Matilda, eldest
daughter of James Boyd, Esq., merchant, New Bond
Street, London.' From the time of reading the above, a
melancholy change took place on the calm deportment of
Isabella. She would sit for hours, resting her head upon
her hand. Sometimes she would mutter to herself— smile

220

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

and weep alternately — then talk on topics, uninteresting in
themselves, with an alarming vehemence.

About a fortnight after Mrs Erskine's death, her mother,
exhausted with the walk, called at the house of a friend on
her return from the churchyard where her remains were
deposited. How piteous it was to see the good old woman,
after having survived the xitter extinction of every hope !
Her trembling limbs could scarcely support her to a chair,
where she remained for some time with her hands spread
upon her face, bending herself to and fro, in all the impo-
tent anguish of isolation. At length she exclaimed — while
the large tears coursed down her withered cheeks —

"• O, Mrs , I have been seeing my poor Henrietta's

grave ; and, since my rejoicing at her birth, I never felt so
satisfied as to see her place of rest — where I trust soon to
lie beside her. But, oh ! what is to become of poor Isabella
when I am gone ? That is the hardest thought of all.
When I look at her pale face, my very soul is pierced, and
I could pray, if it were the Almighty's will, that her heart
may soon be as cold as her mother's."

A few weeks after this circumstance, the old woman was
found dead in her bed, and her unfortunate grand-daughter
(how inscrutable are the ways of Providence !) a wild
maniac beside the corpse.

The remainder of my sad narrative is soon told. Isa-
bella, by a benevolent few, was placed in a lunatic asylum
in the vicinity of Musselburgh, where for many years she
continued an inoffensive lunatic. A week before her
death, sanity returned, and she was removed to the house of
a sister, now respectably married in the neighbourhood. Her
mind continued perfectly unclouded to the end. She talked
of past events — dwelt on the virtues of her mother — affec-
tionately exhorting her sisters to embalm in their own the
memory of such a parent — expressed her happiness at their
prosperity — and, reverting to the probable situation of her
father, earnestly and solemnly entreated that, should he
ever return, they would receive him kindly, and exert every
influence to lead him to repentance. She never mentioned
Charles Allan — which omission may perhaps impress this
conviction upon the minds of our readers, that, in the hour
of death, the natural and relative affections are more power-
ful than those originating in passion. To conclude, in the
words of an elegant living poet —

" If virtue thus can form no lasting guard

'Gainst ills below — say, whence her bright reward ?

Whence, but from fairer worlds beyond the skies,

In which her fadeless beauty never dies?" — DAVID MALLOCK.

THE BONNET ROCK.

IF we had lived at the close of the seventeenth century, and
if we had been to profession either a sculptor or painter,
and had received an order to produce the likeness of an
exquisitely beautiful young woman, we should have chosen
for our model Mary Rintoul; and, if we had not succeeded in
embodying the idea of one of the prettiest creatures that
ever came from the hand of nature, the fault would certainly
have been with ourselves, not with our subject. We have
chosen this mode of endeavouring to convey to the reader
an idea of Mary's personal charms, in order to save our-
selves the trouble, and him the infliction, of that most
hacknied and most threadbare of all subjects, the description
of female beauty ; and we trust it will be sufficiently
effectual. Mary was in truth a pretty girl — so pretty that
we feel, after all, under a strong temptation to describe her
at full length ; but we will not. She was, at the period
when we introduce her to the reader, in her nineteenth year.
So far as regarded her condition in life, however, her
singular beauty was another proof that nature does not

lavish her gifts of person on the children of wealth alone
Her father was but a journeyman wright ;yet was his house
both a cheerful and a comfortable one ; for he was a steady
and industrious man, and as such both esteemed and re-
spected in the humble sphere in which he moved. Kirk-
aldy, the well-known " lang toun," was the place of his
nativity and residence, and is, consequently — a circumstance
which perhaps we should have mentioned before — the scene
of our story.

Mary Rintoul, as will readily be believed, had many
suitors. There were, at least, a score of young men in
Kirkaldy who, had they been asked what was the greatest
happiness that could be conferred on them, would, each and
all of them, at once have answered — "The hand of Aiary
Rintoul." But Mary's affections could not be divided.
They dwelt on one alone — and this happy man was William
Hay, a young carpenter. The selection did credit to her
taste and discernment ; for William was in every way an
excellent and deserving young man. He was, besides, a
remarkably handsome lad, with a pleasant smiling counte-
nance, and of a quiet but cheerful disposition. In short,
never were two more suitably matched than Mary and
William ; nor, perhaps, has any one often seen a more
comely pair. Young as they were, they had long loved
with the most sincere and devoted affection, and had long
looked on themselves as destined for each other. But
circumstances had hitherto forbidden this consummation :
Mary had nothing, and William was yet but an apprentice.
This, however, was a matter which a little time was sure to
amend — and it did amend it. William's indenture expired,
and he became a journeyman, at a high rate of wages for
the times ; and, to crown his happiness, on the very day of
his. re-engagement in his new character, which was that
succeeding the expiry of his apprenticeship, Mary Rintoul,
with the full consent of her parents, named to her enrap-
tured lover the day on which she would become his wife.
This day — it was now the middle of December — was the
Tuesday following what is called in Scotland Handsel Mon-
day— the first Monday of the year.

At the period of our story, which is the year 1691, and
for long after, Handsel Monday was a day of general
festivity in Scotland. On that joyous day, }roung men and
women congregated at innumerable points, all over the
country, for the purposes of merry-making. Mirth and
music filled the land from one end to the other ; and deep
on that day was the debauch of the thirsty, and lively and
long continued the dance of the light-heeled and light-
hearted.

Handsel Monday was, in shor(, in days of yore, in this
our ancient kingdom, a day of wild and reckless glee over
the whole breadth and length of the land. It has now lost
much, nearly all, of its original character as a general
feature ; and perhaps it is as well that it is so ; but it may
even yet be found flourishing, in primitive vigour, in some
remote corners of the country ; and, probably, even in some
not very distant.

But of all the districts in Scotland that joined in this
festive fray — and there was not one that did not — there was
none that conducted it with so joyous a spirit or with such
hearty good will as Fife. There, the day was celebrated
with a glee that was equalled nowhere else, and with a
devotion to the joys of the season that completed its claims
to pre-eminence. Of the prevailing spirit, then, of the day
and the place, the " lang toun," of course, came in for its
share- On that day, Kirkaldy was all agog, all stir and
bustle even by the break of day ; for the revellers took Time
by the forelock, and were early on the field. The particular
Handsel Monday to which we refer, was a delightful day,
and remarkably mild for the season ; a circumstance
which rendered it peculiarly favourable for the out-of-door
sports — such as throwing the hammer, putting the stone,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

221

&c. &c. — that formed the principal amusements of the occa-
sion.

The great scene of these pastimes was the sands of Kirk-
aldy ; and on the occasion of which we speak, these were,
early in the day, crowded with young people of both sexes —
the young men to exhibit their strength and skill, by feats
of personal prowess, and the young women to witness the
triumphs of their lovers. Although, as we have said, the
merry groups assembled on the sands on this day were
composed mostly of young folks, yet they were not all young.
There were amongst them a good many of their elders, who
came there to see how their successors conducted them-
selves, and to revive their recollections of the days that were
past. Amongst these was old Gabriel Watson, who, in his
day, had had no competitor in throwing the stone. He had
beat, by a full yard, Peter Thomson of Pathhead, who was
esteemed, until he suffered this defeat, the man of the most
powerful arm in Fife ; a reputation which was, of course,
transferred, as it had fallen by right of conquest, to Gabriel
Watson. .But many summers, and winters too. had past
since then. Peter was long gathered to his fathers, and
Gabriel was now an old man. He was thenfour-and-twenty —
he was now seventy-four ; still had not all his strength, by
any means, yet departed from him. Gabriel was still a
stalwarth carle, and still could throw a stone with the best
of them. It is not, however, his gymnastic fame, great as
that certainly was, that induces us to notice him thus
particularly, but a much more interesting circumstance.
This is his having been the grandfather of Mary Rintoul —
and dear to the old man, as the apple of his eye, was
the beauteous, lively, warm-hearted child of his daughter.
Peerless — as she really was — Mary seemed in the eyes of her
doting grandfather. Often, often, did he lay his withered
hand on her young head, smoothing down its golden tresses
and imploring on it all the blessings of heaven ; and no
wonder that the old man's heart was wrapt up in Mary
Rintoul, for to him she was ever dutiful, and kind, and
tender, and affectionate. To anticipate his wishes was, to
her, one of the greatest triumphs, and to obey them, one of
the pleasantest occupations of her innocent life.

We have said that, amongst the young people assembled
on this day on the Seafield sands, there were a good many
old folks. These, however, were not found intermingling
much with the noisy, boisterous crowd of their juniors, nor
taking anything like an active part in their pastimes. They
were, for the most part, otherwise and more characteristically
disposed of. At one part of the sands there was a very
singular and remarkable rock, called the Bonnet Rock;
a name it had acquired from its peculiar shape, which bore
a rude resemblance to that article of dress — the old Scotch
flat bonnet — pointed at in its designation. Its form al-
together, however, taking into account its particular position
and its adjuncts, gave it perhaps a fully stronger likeness to
the roof of a pulpit. It was a thin, flat, projecting table of
rock, formed by the action of the sea, which had wrought its
way underneath it, leaving the upper part as a cohering to
the cave which it had thus hollowed out. The edges oi
this roof on either side, had been originally supported by
natural mounds of sand ; but these had latterly been, in great
part, swept away by a succession of extraordinary high
tides. Still the roof remained secure in its airy situation ;
for it had, to all appearance, a sufficient restingplace behind,
or on the side next the land. The cave formed beneath the
Bonnet Rock in the way we have described, was light and
spacious, with a natural floor of smooth, white, firm sand. It
was thus both a curious, and in its way, a pleasant place —
and the good folks of Kirkaldy thought so ; for it was on
the sands around this singular rock that they were assembled
on the day of which we are speaking ; and this had been the
custom there, on Handsel Mondays, from time immemorial.
But on these occasions the inside of the cave presented fully

as joyous a scene as the out. It was the sort of head-
quarters of the revellers, where they went occasionally to
refresh themselves, and to spend the intervals of the sports ;
for it was the general store-house, for the day, of the creature-
comforts of the merry-makers — the grand depository of
brandy bottles, and of cakes and kebbucks; chairs and tables,
too, were then there, and long forms ran alongst its walls, for
the accommodation of its frequenters : nay, so complete was
its equipment as a banqueting-hall, a large fire blazed at its
further end, to drive away the chill air of the place, and to
make it look more cheerful, and feel more comfortable.
It was here, then, in these hilarious quarters, that the older
people were to be found on this day. Seated around the
different tables with the brandy bottle before them, they
talked over the feats of their youth ; and, without being at
the trouble of going out to witness the sports of the young
men, were content to learn of their progress from the
occasional visitors to the cave. But these came so thick and
frequent — there was such a constant outgoing andincoming —
that the old folks were kept well informed of all that was
passing without.

We need hardly say, that William Hay was amongst the
youngsters on the Seafield sands on this occasion. Neither
need we say, that, he being there, Mary Rintoul would not
likely be far off. In truth, William was at this moment
in the thick and the throng of a crowd of young fellows,
who were eagerly engaged in a trial of strength and dex-
terity, at throwing the stone ; and, within a few yards of
him, along with some other girls of her acquaintance, whose
lovers were also amongst the athletic, stood Mary Rintoul —
her eyes glistening with delight ; for William had just
thrown the stone a full foot beyond the most powerful of
I the competitors, at least he who had been hitherto reckoned
so.

" He has thrown beyond them a'," said Mary, in a low,
modest voice, but with a feeling of triumph, which, though
she endeavoured to suppress, her sparkling eye and glowing
cheek betrayed. " He has thrown beyond them a'," she
said, addressing the girl who stood beside her.

The reply was a disdainful toss of the head — for the
defeated party was her lover — and a remark that Jamie's foot
had slipped when he threw the stone, " or it wadna be
Willie Hay that wad gang beyond him."

Mary might well have anticipated this want of sym-
pathy in her triumph, on the part of her companion;
for she was aware of the attachment between Jessy Bell
and James Elphinston ; but, in her joy, she had, for a mo-
ment, forgotten the circumstance. Jessy's remark, how-
ever, instantly brought this to her recollection, and with it
a deeper blush on her cheek. But at this moment, another
object suddenly at once engrossed her attention and re-
lieved her from the embarrassing situation in which sha
stood with her companion.

" There's grandfather," she exclaimed, running towards
the old man, who was now indeed seen approaching the
group, of which she herself had just formed a part. Gabriel's
eyes brightened up, and a smile came over his face when
he saw her.

" Hey ! my little gilpie, are you there ?" he said, yield-
ing his hand to the fond grasp of both of hers. " Whar's
William ? But I needna ask," he added, with a sly look —
" whan ye're here, he canna be far aff."

Mary blushed, and, hanging down her head, replied that
he was " owre there," pointing to the group she had just
left.

" Ay, ye little cutty, I thocht sae," said Gabriel, *tej>-
ping on towards the throng, with his grandaughter in his
hand. " The gowk and the tittlin ! Faith, Mary," he
added, as if suddenly reinspired with the spirit and the
energy of his youth, by the mirthful shouts which arose
from the crowd that surrounded the stone-heavers, "

Tse

222

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

hae a throw yet, for auld lang syne. It '11 maybe be the
last. I used to be gay guid at it ; and I dinna ken but I
may bother some o' them yet."

Saying this, he dropped the hand of his grandaughter,
and, pushing his way into the centre of the crowd, exclaimed,
" Stand aboot, ye feckless loons, and let me at the stane.
It's thirty years this very day since I lifted ane ; but I
hae pith aneuch in me yet, I think, to gie some o' ye the
short throw."

Both the old man himself and his speech were received
with shouts of applause ; for he was well known, and much
and universally esteemed by all who did know him.

'' Well done, Gabriel ! well done, Gabriel ! Faith oor
auld friend has spunk in him yet," was shouted from all
quarters.

" The deil a ane here '11 match him yet," said another.

" Faith, ye say true there, Andrew," replied Peter
Blackie, a man not much Gabriel's junior, to the assertor
of this bold annunciation. " If ye had seen him on this
very spot throwin the stane, as I have, some thirty-five years
since, ye wad be still mair sure ye warna far wrang in say-
ing what ye hae said." Then, raising his voice, so as to be
heard by those around him, " I'll wad a pint o' the best
brandy in Kirkaldy, wi' ony man here, that Gabriel gang
sax inches at the very least beyond the best o' ye. Will
onybody tak me up ?"

Nobody would, because nobody chose to take up a bet
against Gabriel, not from a fear of losing, but from kindly
feeling. In the meantime, the old man had stripped his
coat and taken his place at the point from which the stones
were heaved ; and was in the act of poising the latter,
previous to discharging it, when he felt himself pulled gently
from behind. A little irritated by the unseasonable inter-
ruption, he turned sharply round ; but the slight and tran-
sient expression of displeasure exhibited on his counten-
ance, was quickly replaced by a smile, when he beheld his
grandaughter. It was she who had called his attention
from behind.

" Grandfather," she said, '• I hae brocht ye a wee drap
brandy, thinkin it micht help ye to throw a wee bit better •
for I have often heard ye say, ye aye did that langsyne."
And she produced a tumbler from beneath her shawl, in
which might be about a wine glassful and a half of the
liquor she named.

The old man took the tumbler with a smile of satisfaction;
but it was evidently more with the giver than at the gift.

" Thank ye, Mary, my dear," he said — " it was very
considerate o' ye, and I'll tak it with great pleasure.
Anything, Mary, would do me good, oot o' your hands.
Here's to ye a', lads," he added at the same time drinking
off the contents of the tumbler. " NOVA," he said, again
poising the stone, " by my troth I think I could throw't
owre Inchkeith."

And, in the next instant, the stone was sailing through
the air. It alighted. The spot was marked by a deep
indentation. A foot rule was applied ; and it was found to
be nine inches and a half beyond the furthest previous
throw. A shout from the bystanders at once proclaimed
Gabriel's triumph and their satisfaction with his success.
Again the stone was put into his hands, again he threw,
and six full inches more were added to the distance — a result
•which put all chance ; of successful competition, with the
nervous old man, entirely out of the question. No per-
suasions, however, could induce him to throw a third time.

" Na, na," he said, laughing, " I'll keep what I hae
gotten. I'm no gaun to risk the honour I hae gained. I'll
throw nae mair, neither noo nor hereafter. Ye hae seen
the last o't wi' me, lads."

Saying this, the old man resumed his coat ; and, taking
his grandaughter by the hand — for she had remained beside
him throughout the whole of the scene just described — left

the ground. On gaining the outside of the throng, they
Avere joined by William, who, although he had not hitherto
interfered, had all along been keeping a watchful eye on
their motions. Having congratulated the old man on his
success, the latter proposed to William that they should
adjourn to the Bonnet Rock.

" You and William may gang, grandfather," said Mary,
" but I canna. I maun gang name. I promised my mother
to be hame at tAva o'clock, and it's noo ten minutes past it,
I canna gang, grandfather, on ony account."

" Then, if that's the case, I'll go home with you, Mary,"
said William, " and join your grandfather at the Bonnet
Rock afterwards."

" Ye'll do nae sic thing, either o' ye," replied the old
man, who felt himself particularly happy. " I'll tak a' the
wyte frae your mother, Mary, for keepin you ; and, since
we're at it, we'll just mak a day o't. It's maybe the last
Handsel Monday I'll ever see. Indeed, it's mair than likely
— though you twa, I trust, '11 see mony a ane."

" But really, grandfather, I canna break my promise to
my mother ; it wad alarm her ; she wad think some mis-
chief had befa'en me/' said Mary, shewing great reluctance
to proceed towards the Bonnet Rock, whither the whole
party were half unconsciously directing their steps, during
this conversation.

" Hoot, your mother's a fule, lassie, and ye're anither,"
replied Gabriel, with a sort of good-natured impatience,
and, at the same time, taking his grandaughter by the
arm and urging her onwards. Thus pressed, she offered no
further resistance ; and the whole three were soon after-
wards seated at one of the tables in the cave of the Bonnet
Rock, amidst a numerous assemblage of friends and ac-
quaintances ; and a merry set they Avere, as any festive
occasion ever brought together. Never had the Bonnet
Rock, in truth, seen a more joyous squad — and many a one
it had seen. The roof of the cave rung Avith the shouts of
laughter and glee that rose from the revellers beloAV; and
the laugh and the jest went merrily round.

It was knoAA'n to the most of those assembled here on
this occasion, that the marriage of William Hay and Mary
Riutoul was to take place on the folloAving day ; and this
knoAvledge AAras noAv turned to good account in many a good
humoured joke at the expense of the young couple. But
the approaching nuptials of the betrothed pair were not
thus lightly treated by all. Serious and sincere wishes for
their happiness in the married state, Avere expressed by
numbers of those present, and " long life to them" drank in
many a brimming bumper.

During this scene, Mary and William sat together ; and
the latter, taking advantage of the obscurity of the place, as
it \vas noAv getting dusky, had slipped his arm around the
AA-aist of his fair companion, and Avas occasionally Avhisper-
ing into her ear the overflowings of his happiness, of his
present and prospective felicity.

At this moment, a neAV cause of pleasurable excitement
struck on the ears of the joyous party in the cave. This
Avas the sound of pipes. Donald Grant, the toAvn piper of
Kirkaldy, and as good a performer as ever bleAV a chanter,
Avas both heard and seen coming alongst the sands toAvarcls
the Bonnet Rock, playing, Avith might and main, the Avell-
knoAA-n tune of " Maggy Lauder." On arriving at the cave,
Donald Avas received Avith shouts of Avclcome by its inmates ;
but their joy at so timeous and valuable an accession as
the piper, Avas by no means confined to mere expressions of
satisfaction with his presence. It soon took a more sub-
stantial form ; bumpers of brandy and lumps of bread and
cheese, short-bre^d, and currant bun, Avere thrust in upon
him at all hands The former, Donald — Avho Avas reputed
as good a hand at the pint stoup as at the pipes, and that
was excellent — nipped off, one after the other, as fast as they
I were presented to him ; the latter he thrust into the capa-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

clous pockets of his greatcoat, till they could hold no more
Thus charged and primed, Donald was ready for anything
And therefore at once agreed to a proposal which was made
to him, that he should ascend from the land side, where i
was of easy access, to the top of the Bonnet Rock, and plaj
some tunes from that conspicuous and elevated situation.

The idea met with universal approhation ; and about a
dozen young men, one of whom carried a large flag
eagerly offered to accompany him. One of them — an
intimate friend of William Hay — just as he was leaving
the cave with the rest of Donald's escort, called out to the
former to come along with them. William smiled anc
shook his head, without attempting to move. He fel
too happily situated where he was, with his arm around
his intended bride; and this some of those about him per-
ceived.

" Na, na, faith, ye'll no get Willie to gang alang wi' ye
I warrant," said one — " he's owre weel whar he is." Mary
held down her head and blushed, and jogged William to
go, in order to relieve her from the badinage of his light-
hearted acquaintance.

" Noj: a foot, Mary, will I budge," replied her lover ; " let
them gibe awa there. They say right : I'm better pleasec
whar I am, and therefore here I'll stay." And he pressec
Mary closer to him.

The last of Donald's merry escort had now quitted the
cave, and their joyous shouts were immediately after heard
as they scrambled up the rock behind. The summit was
gained — that is, the roof of the cave ; the flag was placed in
the centre; the piper advanced to the front, and again
struck up the favourite tune of Maggy Lauder. Inspired
by the merry strains, the young men who accompanied
Donald hegan to caper, and dance, and leap about, in all
the madness of the moment's excitement ; whooping and
yelling with boisterous glee. The first part of the play
played, the now half-breathless performers assembled in
the centre of the flat on which they stood, surrounding the
flag-staff, took off their hats, caps, and bonnets, and set up
one loud and hearty shout ; another immediately followed,
and they had already raised the third, when a strange
movement was felt beneath their feet. In the next instant —
and before any idea or conjecture whatever could be formed
of the alarming phenomenon — down, with a dead, heavy
crash, went the entire roof of the cave on its ill-starred
inmates below, crushing every one of them to death ; and it
would have done so though each had had fifty lives — for
the superincumbent mass was of many hundred tons weight.
Huge fragments of rock, and hundreds of cart-loads of
sand, and soil, and rubbish, now filled the cave ; and all
below was silent as the grave, and motionless, where but an
instant before all had been thoughtlessness and joy. Here,
then, was a dreadful catastrophe — a fearful conclusion to
the joyous revelries of the day — an accident unparalleled,
perhaps, in the dismal record of mischances. We need
scarcely add, that this day of feasting in Kirkaldy was
now turned into a day of sad and gloomy mourning. The
reveller, horror-struck, laid down the untasted goblet, when
the dismal intelligence reached him ; the musician stopped
in the midst of his merry strains ; and the dancers flew
from the scene of levity and mirth, to that of death and
desolation.

A hundred hands were immediately employed in clearing
away, with shovel and pick-axe, the accumulation of rocks
and mbbish by which the cave was filled, in the desperate
hope that some of those who were buried under it might
still be alive. Vain hope ! Out of the whole number —
upwards of thirty — not one survived. All, all had perished.
Nay, not only was life totally extinct, but the bodies were
fearfully mangled and dismembered; so much so, that many
of them could not be recognised by their nearest and dearest
friends. To this, however, there was an exception in the

cases of two of the sufferers. These were William Hay
and Mary Rmtoul. whose bodies were found entire and
untouched. Their death had been caused by suffocation,
as they were found deep embedded in a bank of sand •
sitting as they sat when death overtook them, close by each
other with William's arm still around the loved object of
his affections.

A SCRAP OF THE COVENANT.

IT is a fact well known to Dr Lee, and to many oesidec,
that, notwithstanding the extensive researches of Wooclrow
and others there have died away in the silent lapse of time,
or are still hovering over our cleuchs and glens in the
aspect of a dim and misty tradition, many instances of
extreme cruelty and wanton oppression, exercised (during
the reign of Charles II.) over the poor Covenanters, or
rather non-conformists, of the south and west counties of
Scotland. In particular, although the whole district suffered,
it was in the vale of the Nith, and in the hilly portion of
the parish of Closeburn, that the fury of Grierson, Dalzell,
and Johnstone — not to mention an occasional simoom felt

on the withering approach of Clavers with his lambs

was felt to the full amount of merciless persecution and
relentless cruelty. The following anecdote I had from a
sister of my grandmother, who lived till a great age, and
who was lineally descended from one of the parties. I
have never seen any notice whatever taken of the circum-
stances ; but am as much convinced of its truth, in all
its leading features, as I am of that of any other similar
statements which are made in Woodrow, "" Naphtali," or
the " Cloud of Witnesses."

The family of Harkness has been upwards of four
hundred years tenants on the farm of Queensberry, occupying
the farm-house and steading situated upon the banks of the
Caple, and known by the name of Mitchelslacks. The
district is wild and mountainous, and, at the period to
which I refer, in particular, almost inaccessible through any
regularly constructed road. The hearts, however, of these
mountain residents were deeply attuned to religious and
civil liberty, and revolted with loathing from the cold
doctrines and compulsory ministrations of the curate of
Closeburn. They were, therefore, marked birds for the
myrmidons of oppression, led on by Claverhoiise, and " Ked
Rob," the scarlet-cloaked leader of his band.

It was about five o'clock of the afternoon in the month
of August, that a troop of horse was seen crossing -the Glass-
rig — a flat and heathy muir — and bearing down with great
speed upon Mitchelslacks. Mrs Harkness had been very
recently delivered of a child, and still occupied her bed, in
what was denominated the chamber, or cha'mer — an apart-
ment separated from the rest of the house, and set apart
for more particular occasions ; her husband, the object of
pursuit, having had previous intimation, by the singing or
whistling of a bird, (as was generally reported on such
occasions,) had betaken himself, some hours before, to the
mountain and the cave — his wonted retreat on similar
visits. From this position, on the brow of a precipice, inac-
cessible by any save a practised foot, he could see his own
dwelling, and mark the movements which were going on
outside. The troop, having immediately surrounded the
louses, and set a guard upon every door and window, as
well as an outpost, or spy, upon an adjoining eminence,
mmediately proceeded with the search — a search conducted
vith the most brutal incivility, and even indelicacy ; sub-
ecting every child and servant to apprehensions of the
most horrid and revolting character. It would be every
way improper to mention even a tithe of the oaths and
)lasphemy which were not only permitted, but sanctioned
and encouraged, by their impious and regardless leader.

224

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Suffice it to say, that, after every other corner and crevice
was searched in vain, the cha'mer was invaded ; and the
privacy of a female, in very interesting and delicate circum-
stances, rudely and suddenly entered.

" The old fox is here," said Clavers, passing his sword up
to the hilt betwixt the mother and her infant, sleeping
unconsciously on her arm, and thrusting it home with such
violence that the point perforated the bed, and even pene-
trated the floor beneath.

' Toss out the whelp," vociferated Red Rob — always
forward on such occasions — " and the b — ch will follow."
And, suiting the action to the word, he rolled the sleeping,
and happily well-wrapped, infant on the floor.

" The Lord preserve my puir bairn," was the instantane-
ous and instinctive exclamation of the agonized and now
demented mother — springing at the same time from her
couch, and catching up her child with a look of the most
despairing alarm. A cloud of darkened feeling seemed to
pass over the face and features of the infant,* and a cry of
helpless suffering succeeded, at once to comfort and to
madden the mother. " A murderous and monstrous herd
are ye all," said she, again resuming her position, and press-
ing the affrighted, rather than injured child to her breast.
" Limbs of Satan and enemies of God, begone ! He whom
ye seek is not here ; nor will the God he serves and you
defy, ever suffer him, I fervently hope and trust, to fall
into your merciless and unhallowed hands."

At this instant a boy about twelve years of age was drag-
ged into the room, and questioned respecting the place of his
father's retreat, sometimes in a coaxing, and at others in a
threatening manner. The boy presented to every inquiry
the aspect of dogged resistance and determined silence.

" Have the bear's cub to the croft," said Clavers, "and
shoot him on the spot."

The boy was immediately removed ; and the distracted
mother left, happily for herself, in a state of complete
insensibility. There gre\v, and there still grows, a rowan tree
in the comer of the garden or kailyard of Mitchelslacks ;
to this tree or bush the poor boy was fastened with cords,
having his eyes bandaged, and being made to understand,
that, if he did not reveal his father's retreat, a ball would
immediately pass through his brain. The boy shivered,
attempted to speak, then seemed to recover strength and
resolution, and continued silent.

" Do you wish to smell gunpowder," ejaculated Rob,
firing a pistol immediately under his nose, whilst the ball
perforated the earth a few paces off.

The boy uttered a loud and unearthly scream, and his
head sunk upon his breast. At this instant, the aroused
and horrified mother was seen on her bended knees, with
clasped hands, and eyes in which, distraction rioted, at the
feet of the destroyers. But nature, which had given her
strength for the effort, now deserted her, and she fell life-
less at the feet of her apparently murdered son. Even the
heart of Clavers was somewhat moved at this scene
and he was in the act of giving orders for an immediate
retreat, when there rushed into the circle, in all the frantic
wildness of a maniac, at once the father and the husband.
He had observed from his retreat the doings of that fearful
hour; and, having every reason to conclude that he was
purchasing his own safety at the expense of the lives of his
whole family, he had issued from the cave, and hurled
himself from the steep, and was now in the presence of
those whom he deemed the murderers of his family.

" Fiends — bloody, brutal, heartless fiends — are ye all ! —
and is this your work, ye sons of the wicked and the accursed
One ? What ! could not one content ye ? Was not the boy
enough to sacrifice on your accursed temple to Moloch, but
ye must imbrue your liands in the blood of a weak, an

"In the light of heaven its face
Grew dark as they were speaking."

infirm, a helpless woman. Oh, may the God of the coven.
ant,v added he, bending reverently down upon his knees,
and looking towards heaven, " may the God of Jacob for-
give me for cursing ye! And, thou man of blood," (address-
ing Clavers personally,) " think ye not that the blood of
Brown, and of my darling child, and my beloved wife —
think ye not, wot ye not, that their blood, and the blood
of the thousand saints which ye have shed, will yet be re-
quired, ay, fearfully required, even to the last drop, by an
avenging God, at your hands ?"

Having uttered these words with great and awful energy,
he was on the point of drawing his sword, concealed under
the flap of his coat, and of selling his life as dearly as pos-
sible, when Mrs Harkness, who had now recovered her
senses, rushed into his arms, exclaiming —

" O Thomas, Thomas, what is this ye hae done ? Oh,
beware, beware! — I am yet alive and unskaithed. God has
shut the mouths of the lions ; they have not been permit-
ted to hurt me. And our puir boy, too, moves his head,
and gives token of life. But you, you, my dear, dear, infa-
tuated husband — oh, into what hands have ye fallen, and
to what a death are ye now reserved !"

" Unloose the band," vociferated Clavers — " make fast
your prisoner's hands, and, in the devil's name, let us- have
done with this driveling !'

There was a small public house, at this time, at Closeburn
mill, and into this Clavers and his party went for refresh-
ment, whilst an adjoining barn, upon which a guard was
set, served to secure the prisoner. No sooner was Mr
Harkness left alone, and in the dark — for it was now night-
fall— than he began to think of some means or other of
effecting his escape. The barn was happily known to him ;
and he recollected that, though the greater proportion of
the gavel was built of stone and lime, yet that a small part
towards the top, as was sometimes the case in these days,
was constructed of turf; and that, should he effect an
opening through this soft material, he might drop with
safety upon the top of a peat-stack, and thus effect his
escape to Creechope Linn, with every pass and cave of which
he was intimately acquainted. In a word, his escape was
effected in this manner ; and, though the alarm was im-
mediately given, and large stones rolled over the precipices
of the adjoining linn, he was safely ensconced in darkness,
and under the covert of a projecting rock ; and ultimately
(for, in the course of a few days, King William and liberty
were the order of the day) he returned to his wife and his
family, there to enjoy for many years that happiness which
the possession of a conscience void of offence towards God
and towards man is sure to impart. The brother, how-
ever, of this more favoured individual, was not so fortunate,
as may be gathered from Woodrow, and the " Cloud of
Witnesses ;" for he was executed ere the day of deliverance,
at the Gallowlee, and his most pathetic and eloquent ad-
dress is still extant.

Let us rejoice with trembling, that we live in an age
and under a government so widely different from those now
referred to ; and whilst on our knees we pour forth the
tribute of thankfulness to God, let us teach our children to
prize the precious inheritance so dearly purchased by our
forefathers.

WILSON'S

T, ^Tralrittonarg, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH.

IT was a good many years before the accession of King
William III. to the throne of Britain, that a farmer of
the name of William Kerr rented a farm in the parish of
Minniegaff, in the county of Wigton, on the great road to
Port-Patrick. The farm lay at some distance from the road,
at the foot of the hills — a wild and secluded spot, possessing
few beauties, save to a person who had been reared in the
neighbourhood, whose earliest associations were blended
with the scenes of his youth.

The farm of Kerr was of far greater extent than import-
ance, only a few acres of it being in cultivation ; but his
flock of sheep was pretty extensive, and his black cattle
numerous. He was looked upon as a wealthy man at the
period of which we speak, had been married for many
years, but had no children to enjoy that wealth which in-
creased from year to year. This was the only drawback to
his earthly happiness ; but he never repined, or let a word
escape his lips to betray the wish of his heart. Even the
rude taunts of his more fortunate neighbours he bore with
unruffled countenance, though he felt them keenly ; and he
still loved Grizzel, his wife, with all the fervour of his first
affection — an affection that was returned with usury.

Such was the situation of the worthy farmer, when, one
morning in harvest, he went out with the earliest dawn to
look after some sheep he had upon a hill in a distant part
of the farm. He had counted them, and was returning to
join his reapers, accompanied by Colin, his faithful dog,
who, in devious excursions, circled round the large grey
stones that lay scattered about. He had proceeded for
some way without missing the animal, when he stopped
and whistled for him. Colin, contrary to his usual custom,
did not come bounding to his side, but answered by a loud
barking — a circumstance which a little surprised him ; but
he proceeded homeward, thinking that he was amusing him-
self with some animal he had discovered ; and, being in haste
to join his reapers, paid no further attention to this act of
disobedience in his favourite. Breakfast passed, and mid-
day came, and still Colin did not make his appearance.
His master was both angry and uneasy at his absence ; but,
in the bustle and laughter of the harvest field, again forgot
the occasional thoughts of his useful dog, that obtruded
themselves on his mind. It drew towards evening, and
still no Colin came. The circumstance was becoming un-
accountable ; none had seen the dog ; and uneasiness
succeeded to anger. He now left his reapers, and went
to the house to inquire of Grizzel if the animal had been
in the house ; but she answered that she had only seen him
once in the early part of the day, for a minute or two,
when, after receiving a piece of cake, he had ran off with it
in his mouth, nor stopped to eat it, contrary to his usual
custom. This, with the circumstance of his leaving him in
the morning, and his unaccountable absence, confirmed
William Kerr in his opinion, that something uncommon
must have happened to him. As he could ill do without
his assistance to gather his sheep for the night, without
returning to his reapers, he set out for the spot where the
dog had left him, ever and anon calling him by his well-
No. 133. VOL. III.

known whistle and name. The large grey stones and bar-
ren muir echoed the call ; but no Colin appeared. At length
he came to the place, and was surprised and overtaken with
fear, as he observed the animal stretched upon the ground,
with something close beside him, which he seemed to watch.
" Colin, Colin !" he called ; " poor Colin !"
The dog did not rise : he gave every mute token of joy
and pleasure at the sight of his master, looking over his
bushy shoulder, and wagging his tail; but he made no effort
to stir — fearful, apparently, of disturbing the object that
lay beside him.

(t Surely," said his master, " my poor dog is bewitched.
Colin, you rascal, what have you there ? Come with me to
the sheep." But Colin moved not.

The farmer stood rooted to the spot ; he had neither the
power to advance nor retreat ; a superstitious fear took
possession of him ; his hair moved upon his head ; a ting-
ling feeling seemed to excite every muscle of his body, and
deprive it of voluntary motion. The fear, in fact, of the
fairies was upon him ; he conceived himself the victim of
fascination — a conception well justified by his own conduct,
for he could not, for a time, withdraw his eyes from the
object of his alarm. When the subject was considered,
there was ground for his fear. Before him, under the
shadow of a large grey boulder stone, within a few yards,
lay his faithful dog — a creature that had never before re-
quired a second call from him — now deaf to that voice it
was his former pleasure to obey at every hazard. He was
supporting something that had the appearance of a lovely
child sound asleep, nestled close into his bosom, the head
resting upon his shaggy side, and its curly, golden hair
appearing like rays of light on the pillow upon which it
rested. The face appeared more beauteous than anything of
this earth he had ever seen — so delicate, so clear, so beauti-
fully blended was rose and lily ; but the eyes were swol-
len and red with weeping, pearly drops stole in slow
succession from its dark eyelashes, while a heavy sob
swelled its little bosom as if it would awaken it. The
farmer, with his eyes almost starting from their sockets,
incapable of motion or cool reflection, stood gazing upon
the pair as they lay before him — the one unconscious, the
other, while shewing every symptom of joy he could silently
express at sight of his master, yet seemingly fearful as
an anxious mother of disturbing his sleeping charge. As
William Kerr's surprise beg»m to abate, his fears, if pos-
sible, increased.

" Surely," he said to himself, " this is one of the child-
ren of the fairies. God protect me! I am bewitched as well
as my poor dog. I never felt thus before, in the presence of
mere" earthly being. I cannot move — my knees can scarce
support me — I cannot withdraw my eyes from that fearful
object. God deliver me from the power of the enemy!" And
he shut his eyelids by a convulsive effort.

He then attempted to pray, but memory had fled ; nor
psalm nor prayer could he call up to his aid, the palsy of
fear had so completely unhinged him. The very beauty of
the object increased his alarm; for he had heard that Satan
is never more to be feared than when he appears as an
angel of light. With his eyes shut by a nervous effort, he
turned himself round, and ran to his reapers.

226

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

As he approached them, and the distance increased
between him and the object of his fears, his natural firm-
ness returned ; but his countenance still betrayed the agi-
tation of his mind. The reapers were just quitting the
field, having accomplished the labours of the day; and, see-
ing him running towards them, crowded round him, eagerly
inquiring the cause of his alarm. It was some time before
he could recover his breath, (so swiftly had he ran,) to give
them an account of what he had seen, and express his re-
gret for the loss of Colin, whom he never more expected
to see. The whole group were struck with fear and amaze-
ment, gazing alternately at the farmer and each other —
not knowing what to think of the strange case; but all agreed
that some effort ought to be made for the recovery of the
dog. John Bell, an elder of the church, and a neighbour
farmer, spoke and said —

" My brethren, the power of the Evil One is great ; but
>t is overruled by One greater and more glorious. Let us
employ His aid ; then shall we go forth in the strength of
our faith, and Satan shall flee from before us."

He then prayed, and the reapers kneeled. When his ad-
dress was finished, he arose with a firm assurance in the
Divine protection.

" I will go forth," said he, " in the strength of His name,
and see what new delusion of Satan this is. William Kerr,
send to the house for the ha' Bible, that I may carry it as a
shield between us and the wiles of him who will vanish
before the holy book, like mist before the wind."

One of the young men ran to the house, and soon returned
with his mistress, she herself carrying the important volume,
which she delivered into the hands of John Bell ; and the
latter, opening it, read aloud to them that beautiful chapter,
the fourteenth of St John's Gospel. They then proceeded
to the spot pointed out by the farmer, chanting a psalm,
which the elder gave out, as they walked behind him. All,
excepting the elder, were unnerved by fear — casting many
a timid glance around, and ready, at the least alarm, to run
back. Curiosity to see the conclusion, and shame, more than
firmness, compelled them to advance. Before they reached
the stone where the farmer had seen his dog and his charge,
Colin came bounding to them, barking for joy, and fawning
upon his master and mistress ; while the former, in a burst
of joy at the recovery of his favourite, exclaimed —

" Great is the power of the Word I The charm is broken !
Colin, Colin, I am rejoiced to have rescued you from the
evil powers. Come, lad, let us to the hill and weer in the
ewes." And, with his usual whistle, he pointed to the
hill.

Colin would not yet obey the wonted order, but ran
back towards the large grey stone, barking in an unusual
manner, returning, again running towards it, and looking
back as if he wished his master to follow. The whole group
were in amazement, and knew not what to think of these
Btrange actions of the dog ; but they had yet more to be
surprised at ; for, taking the end of his master's plaid in
his mouth, the creature endeavoured gently to drag him
towards the stone. As the party thus stood irresolute,
the faint wailing of a, child was distinctly heard, and a babe,
supporting its feeble arms upon the stone, was seen to
emerge from the other side of it. It was the same the
farmer had previously seen — his fears returned — several of
the most timid fled ; but Colin ran to the little stranger,
and licked the tears that streamed down its cheeks, while
the child put its arms around his neck, and leaned its head
upon its new friend. That they witnessed something out of
the usual order of nature, no one present had the smallest
doubt ; for how, by earthly means, could a child of man
have reached a spot so lonely and secluded ? The farmer
and his wife both endeavoured, by the most endearing
terms, to induce Colin to leave it ; but in vain.

" What can this mean ?" exclaimed Grizzel " Colin,

Colin, you never before refused to obey my voice ; surely
nothing good could induce you to disregard it. Come, come,
arid leave that unearthly creature."

John Bell, who had been occupied in mental devotion,
at length broke silence —

" Let us not judge harshly," said he ; " perhaps it is a
Christian child, dropped here by the fairies as they were
bearing it away from its parents, who now mourn for its
loss, and nurse a changeling in its place. It may have been
rescued by the prayer of faith, or some other means, from
their power. In the strength of His name, I will be con-
vinced of its real nature, either by putting it to flight
if it is unearthly, or rescuing it from death if it is human ;
for we must not leave it here to perish through cold and
want, and prove ourselves more cruel than the dumb
animal."

As he spoke, the eye of the child turned towards them ;
it gave a feeble cry, and stretched out its arms, still sup-
ported by the dog. The elder advanced to it, and placing
the Bible upon its head, it smiled in his face, and grasped
his leg. The tears came into the good man's eyes, while
Colin bounded for joy, and licked his hand as it rested upon
the head of the child.

" Come forward, my friends," he said ; " it is a lovely
child, a Christian babe, for it smiles at the touch of the
blessed Word. It is weak and sore spent, and calls for
attention and kindness."

All the woman was kindled in the heart of the farmer's
wife : she ran to the babe and pressed it to her bosom,
kissing it as it smiled in her face, and lisped a few words
in a language none present could understand. The fears
of all were now nearly dissipated ; those who had fled
returned ; all the females in turn embraced the babe ; but
the fondness of William Kerr for the foundling was now
equal to his former fears. He at once resolved to adopt it
as his own until its sorrowing parents should reclaim it.
Grizzel concurred in the sentiment and resolution ; and he
and Colin, who now had resumed all his wonted obedience,
set off" for the hill, while the other returned to the house.
As Grizzel carried the child home, she felt her love for it
increase ; and the void that had existed in her bosom ever
since her marriage, was fast filling up. The child's eyes
were of a deep hazel, and gave indications of beauty ; and
its clothes were of a far finer texture than those worn by chil-
dren of humble rank, and bespoke a good origin. Of all the
females present, she alone felt assured that it was a proper
child, because she wished it to be so ; the others looked upon
it still with some misgivings ; revolving, doubtless, in their
minds, the strangeness of all the circumstances attending
the affair — and not the least of these was the locality of the
child's position. It was a lonely spot, bearing no good
name, close by a beautiful green knoll, standing by a spring
of pure water, and covered with daisies ; while all around
was heather or stunted grass, resembling an oasis in the
desert. Strange sights were reported to have been seen
near it ; and the shepherd lads, in the still evenings of sum-
mer, were wont to hear there strange humming noises,
mixed with faint tinklings — sure signs, of course, of the
presence of the fairies. It was called the Fairy Knowe,
while the stone was called the Eldrich Stone — names of
bad omen, and sufficient to scare all visiters after nightfall.
The newly awakened feelings of Grizzel deprived all these
ideas and recollections of that weight which operated With
the other females, and warped their opinions ; and, while
they concluded that nothing good could be found in such a
spot, they cautioned Grizzel, in their kindness, to be wary
that the creature did her no harm. Grizzel herself was
not without some misgivings ; but she clung to the babe
that lay in her bosom, and resolved to put to the test, as
soon as she reached home, whether it was really a fairy,
or a child stolen by these kidnappers. She beHeved her

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

test to be sufficient to make it, if a fairy, leave her
presence ; if a human babe, to place it beyond their
power to recover it, cleanse it from any spell they
might have put upon it, secure it from the evil eye,
ind prevent its being forespoken. For these most import-
ant purposes she borrowed a piece of money (without
assigning a reason for wanting it) from one of her neigh-
bours, and, as soon as she reached home, secured herself in
the spence with the babe, (for no one must see her in the
act,) put the piece of money into some clean water with
salt, stripped the child to the skin, washed it carefully,
then took its shift and passed it thrice through the smoke of
the tire, and put it on again with the wrong side out. All
this was done not without fear and trembling on the part
of Grizzel ; but her new found treasure was unchanged, and
smiled sweetly in her face as she proceeded in her super-
stitious operation. Having supplied its little wants, now
fully assured, she put it to bed with joy and satisfaction,
and looked on it till it fell into a sweet sleep. Scarce had
she accomplished this, when William Kerr entered with
John Bell, upon whom he had called as he returned from
the hill, to aid him with his counsel and advice.

'• Well, Grizzel," said he, " is it a lad or a lass bairn we hae
found ; for I am convinced, (for a' the fear it gae me,) by
what our elder has said, that it is nae fairy, but an unchris-
tened wean the elves had been carryin awa frae its parents,
wha, I hae nae doot, are noo mournin its loss."

"Indeed, guidman," replied Grizzel, "it is as sonsie a
lass bairn as ever I saw in my life, and a's richt. It is nae
fairy, I'm satisfied, and I'm right glad on't ; for she'll be a
great comfort to us, now that we are getting up in years, if
her ain mother doesna come to take her to her ain bosom ;
but o' that I think there is little chance ; for, by the few
words it spoke, it is nae child o' oor land."

" William Kerr," said the elder, "if, as your wife proposes,
you mean to keep this child, there is one duty to perform,
both for its sake and your own — and that is, it must be bap-
tized ; for there is no doubt this sacred right has either been
withheld or neglected, or the Enemy would not have had the
power to do as he has done. To-merrow I will go myself
to the minister and talk with him ; and next Lord's Day you
or I must present it to be admitted into the visible church,
of which I pray it maybe a worthy member. Are you con-
tent?"

" Far mair than content," replied the farmer : " I will
rejoice and bless God for the occasion as fervently as if she
were my ain. While I hae a bit or a beild she shall neither
feel hunger nor cold."

The parties separated for the night, and the new-found
stranger slept in the bosom of the farmer and his wife.
On the following Sabbath it was taken to the church of
Minniegaff, to be baptized. The church was crowded to
excess. Every one that could, by any effort, get there,
attended to witness the christening of a fairy, all expecting
something uncommon to occur. The farmer and his wife,
they thought, were too rash to harbour it in their house, for
it was not chancy to be at feud with " the good people,"
who, out of revenge, might shoot his cattle ; and, verily,
during that summer, a good many had already died of elve
shots. As the christening party approached the church,
every one was anxious to get a peep at the young creature.
It was so beautiful that it could not, they said, be a com-
mon child ; neither was it a changeling, for changelings are
weazened, yammering, ill-looking things, that greet night
and day, and never grow bigger. Contrary to the expect-
ations of almost all the congregation, when the farmer and
his party entered the church, the child neither screamed nor
flew off in a flash of fire, but smiled as beautiful as a cherub.
The service went on as usua; The farmer stood up and
took the holy vows upon himself, and gave the lovely babe
the name of Helen. The girl throve, and became the pride

of her foster parents, who loved her as intensely as if she
had been their own child ; and Colin became, if possible,
more beloved by them, as Helen's playfellow.

A few months after the finding of Helen, as Grizzel was
one day examining the silken dress which she wore when dis-
covered on the muir, and which had never been put on since
—being soiled and damp when taken off — she discovered a
piece of paper in one of the folds, much cressed, as if it had
been placed there by some one in a state of great agitation.
It was written in French; neither the farmer nor herself could
read it ; but William, on the first opportunity, took andshewed
it to the minister, who translated it as follows : — " Merciful
God ! protect me and my child from the fury of my husband,
who has returned, after his long absence, more gloomy than
ever. Alas ! in what have I offended him? If I have, with-
out any intention, done so, my dear baby, you cannot have given
offence. Good God ! there are preparations for a journey
making in the court-yard — horse, saddle, and pillion. Where
am I to be carried to ? My babe ! I will not be parted from
you but by death ! His feet are on the stairs. I hear his voice.
Alas ! I tremble at that sound which was once music to my
soul. Holy Virgin ! he approaches !" Here the writing
ceased. It threw no light upon the event, further than it
shewed that the mother of the child was unhappy, and above
the lower ranks of life. The paper William left with the
minister, at his request.

The little Helen grew, and became even more lovely and
engaging — the delight and joy of the farmer and his wife.
Yet their happiness had in it a mixture of pain ; for they
never thought of her but with a fear lest, as not being their
own child, she should be claimed and taken from them. Years
rolled on, and Helen grew apace. She was of quick parts,
and learned, with facility, everything she was taught — a
circumstance which induced many to believe that the fairies
were her private tutors. The opinion was justified by
other circumstances. She was thoughtful and solitary for
a child. The Eldrich Stone was her favourite haunt. She
seldom joined in the sports of the other children of her age
— having, indeed, little inducement ; for they were always
fearful of her, and felt constraint in her presence. Some of
the most forward taunted her with the cognomen of Fairy
Helen ; and if she was successful, (as she often was,) in their
childish sports, they left her, saying, " Who could win with
a fairy !" This chilled the joyous heart of the fair Helen, and
was the cause of many tears, which the kind Grizzel would
kiss off with more than maternal love. As she grew up,
she withdrew herself from the society of those who thus
grieved her ; but there was one individual who ever took her
part, and boldly stood forth in her defence. This was Willie,
"the widow's son," as he was familiarly called, for no one knew
his surname. He lived with an aged woman, who passed as
his mother; but the more knowing females of the village said
she could not, from her apparent age, bear that character.
She had come there no one knew from whence, and inhabited
a lone cottage with the boy. She appeared to be extremely
poor, yet sought no aid from any one. William was better
clad than any child in the parish, and much care had been
taken in his education. She had (by the proper legitimate
right) the name of being a witch. She sought not the
acquaintance of her neighbours ; and, when addressed by any
of them, was very reserved, but civil ; while the only thing
that saved her from persecution, was her regular and devout
attendance at church, along with the child, AVilliam, and the
good opinion of the worthy minister Yet this scarcely
saved her; for, when anything untoward occurred in the
neighbourhood, it was always laid to her charge. William was
six or seven years older than Helen, and, still smarting under
the taunts he had himself endured, was her champion, and
none dared offer her insult in his presence. Her timid heart
clung to him and loved him as a brother, and they were evei
I together— as he accompanied her to and from school, as if she

228

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had been his sister. He was now about eighteen, tall and
athletic for his age, and of a firm and resolute mind.

It was in the autumn of the year 1688, that a strange
horseman, with a servant behind him, was seen to approach
the lone cottage of the widow, to dismount and enter it.
He remained for several hours, during which his ser-
vant was busy purchasing a horse and the necessary fur-
niture for an immediate departure. Willie was afterwards
seen bounding across the fields, towards the house of William
Kerr, which he entered with a face beaming with joy.

" Helen," said he, " I am come to bid you farewell ; for
I am going to leave Minniegaff for a long time, and I could
not think of going without seeing you, and letting you know
my good fortune."

Helen burst into tears and sobbed. " O Willie !" she
cried, " who will take my part when you are gone ? I will
have no friend left but my dear father and mother, and I
will miss you so much ; but it is wrong for me to be grieved
for your departure, if your fortune is good." And she tried
to subdue her tears.

" Yes, Helen," said he, "my fortune is good: I have
found, what I hope you will soon find, a long-lost father — a
parent I knew not existed. I now know that Elizabeth is
not my mother, but has only had the charge of me during
my father's exile in a foreign land. He is now returned
with William, Prince of Orange, and is restored to his estate.
I am going to London to join him, where I will often think
of you, Helen. Farewell !" And, clasping the weeping Helen
to his bosom, he ran back to his cottage, took farewell of
Elizabeth, and, full of hope and joyous expectation, soon
was out of sight.

After the departure of Willie, Helen felt for long a
loneliness she had never felt before. The Eldrich Stone
used to be her favourite resort ; but she was now much dedi-
cated to Elizabeth, who, being left alone, became fond of
her company, passing the greater part of the day in the
farmer's house, but continuing as reserved and taciturn as
she had always been. In vain Grizzel endeavoured to
know from her who Willie's father was, or his name : all
she ever would communicate was, that his was a gallant
name ; and the time, she hoped, was now come, when he
might pronounce it with the best of the land. Thus time
passed on, and Willie was almost forgot by every one save
Elizabeth and Helen — the one dwelling on the loved theme
with all the fondness of a parent, the other with that of a
beloved brother ; but no news of him had as yet reached the
cottage of Elizabeth, who was now become very frail, while
Helen paid her every attention in her power.

The seasons had, for the last three years, been most
unpropitious ; the poor were suffering from famine, and the
more wealthy were much straitened in their circumstances,
and impoverished by the death of their cattle from want of
fodder. In summer — if it could be called summer — when the
sun was not seen for weeks together, when the whole atmos-
phere was surcharged by fogs, when the ground was deluged
by rain, and the wind blew piercing cold, the grain that was
sown did not ripen sufficiently either for food to man or seed
to sow ; while the cattle, seized by unknown diseases, lan-
guished and died. Money, in those distant parts, was of
small avail ; for none had grain to dispose of, or help to
bestow, upon the numerous applicants who thronged the
doors of the larger farmers. Nettles, marsh mallows,
and every weed that was not immediately hurtful, were
eagerly sought after and devoured by the famished people.
Among all this suffering, William Kerr did not escape.
The lengthened and unprecedentedly deep snow-storms
were fatal to his flocks, and, before the fourth winter, he
had not one left to take care of. His black cattle died,
until he was equally bereft of all ; and that house where
plenty had always been, and from whence the beggar was
never sent away hungry, was now the abode of want

bordering on famine. Yet despondency never clouded his
brow, and his heait was strong in Christian faith, and resigned
to the tvill of God. Evening and morning his simple sacri-
fice was offered up to the throne of grace with as fervent
love and adoration as in the days of his greatest prosperity ;
while the assiduous and gentle Helen mingled her tears
with those of Grizzel, as much for the misery that was
around them as their own. The winter of the fifth year had
set in with unusual severity, long before its usual time, and
all that William had secured of his crop was a few bushels of
oats, so black and bitter that nothing but the extreme of
hunger would have compelled a human being to have tasted
the flour they produced. Their only cow — the last of six which
had in former years abundantly supplied their dairy — now
lean and shrunk, had long since withheld her nourishing
stream. It was a beautiful animal, the pride of Helen and
Grizzel, was reared upon the farm, arid obeyed Helen's
voice like a dog. With great exertion and assiduity she
had procured for it support ; but the grass did not give its
wonted nourishment, being stinted and sour, and in vain
was now all her care. The snow lay deep on the ground,
and the animal was pining with hunger, and must inevitably
die from want.

Great was the struggle, and bitter the tears they shed,
before they gave consent to have their favourite put to death.
Yet it was reasonable ; for the carcase was requisite to sustain
their own existence and that of Elizabeth, whom the good
farmer had removed to his own home, lest she had died
for want, or been plundered in those times of suffering and
distress — when even the bands of natural affection were rent
asunder by famine, and children were devouring in secret
any little eatable they found, without giving a share to their
more famished parents, while parents grudged a morsel to
their expiring children. Thus passed another miserable
winter, and death was now busy around them ; numbers died
from want and unwholesome food, and, among the rest, old
Elizabeth sickened and paid the debt of nature ; but, to her
last moment, she never divulged to Helen, much as she loved
her, any circumstance regarding Willie. Helen, indeed,
in the present distress, thought not of him ; and when Eliza-
beth used to regret his neglect of her, she only remembered
him as a former playfellow and generous school companion.

A few days before she died, as Helen sat by her bedside,
administering to her wants, she put forth her emaciated
and withered hands, and, taking Helen's, kissed them, and
blessed her for the care and attention she had paid her.
Pointing to a small chest in which her clothes were kept,
she gave Helen the key, and requested her to open it and
bring a small ebony box to her. Helen did as desired ;
and, when she received the box, she opened it by touching
a concealed spring. Helen looked on in amazement ; for
in the box were many jewels, and several valuable rings.
The old woman took them out, one by one, and laid them
upon the bed, in a careless manner, as if they had been of
no value ; then took out a small bundle of letters, which
she kissed and wept over for a few moments ; then, looking
up, she said—

" O Great Author of my being ! pardon this, my last
thought of earth, when my whole soul ought to he employed
in thanking Thee for Thy mercies, and imploring pardon
for my many sins. Oh, how I now lament my infirmities ! —
but there is still hope for even the chief of sinners, which
I am, in the blood of Jesus." She then sunk overpowered
upon her pillow for a time, and at length recovering, con-
tinued— " Dear Helen, when I am gone, keep these baubles
to yourself. Alas ! they were purchased by me by years of
misery. These papers you will keep for William, should
he ever return to inquire after me ; if not, destroy them ;
you are at liberty to look over them if you choose, when I
am no more. In this box you will also find a small sum
in gold. When it pleases God to give his sinful creatures

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

229

more favourable seasons, it will restock this present de-
solate farm, and in part only restore the debt of gratitude
we owe a worthy man."

Helen, with tears, accepted the bequest, and restored it
to the oaken chest ; then kneeled by the bedside of the
sufferer, and prayed with all her heart for her recovery ;
but the hand of death was upon Elizabeth — she fell into
stupor, and never spoke again. Helen and her foster
parents felt real sorrow at the death of their inmate, for she
was a pleasant companion to a pious auditory. Though
taciturn on every subject but what was of a spiritual nature,
her soul became as if on fire when she conversed on her
favourite theme, and a sublimity was in her language that
carried away her hearers, and forced conviction upon the
cold and indifferent.

As soon as the funeral was over, Helen shewed to
William and his wife the magnificent bequest of the old
lady. Although they knew not the exact value of the
gems, they knew it must be considerable ; and the guineas
were above two hundred. Their astonishment was great
at the good fortune of Helen ; for they had always thought,
from her dress and humility, that Elizabeth was poor,
although she never sought relief, but lived principally upon
the produce of her little kailyard, and the meal she pur-
chased each year, in the beginning of winter, along with
her meat. This unexpected wealth added not to their
happiness, nor in the least abated their grief for the loss of
the giver. Scanty as the necessaries of life were, "William
Kerr was far from poor ; but, at this time, money could not
procure food in many of the distant parts of Scotland.

By strict economy, they contrived to put over the next long
and dismal winter, and even to have something to spare for
the more necessitous of their neighbours, in hopes that the
ensuing spring would put an end to their privations; but it
proved cold and barren as the others had been, and the
more necessitous of the surviving population had retired to
the sea-shore, to eke out a scanty subsistence by picking the
shell-fish from the rocks, and eating the softer sea-weeds.
Often in vain the most dexterous fisher essayed his skill,
and returned without a single fish ; for even those had for-
saken the shores of the famishing land, driven off by the
storms, and the swell and surge, that for weeks together
beat upon the coast.

In this the extreme of their distress, William Kerr heard
that a vessel had arrived at Stranraer with grain. Without
delay he mounted his sole remaining horse, now so much
reduced that it could scarce bear his weight, and set off for
the port — a distance of twenty miles. Short as it was, it
was late in the evening ere he arrived ; and he found, to his
regret, that all had been disposed of in a few hours — being
dispersed about the town and immediate neighbourhood.
Through much importunity, and by paying a great price, he
procured a scanty supply ; and next morning, laying it on
his horse, went back to his home, rejoicing that he had pro-
cured it ; for what he had reaped the harvest before was
now nearly all consumed. As there was no appearance of
the present summer being better than the preceding one,
he resolved to shut up his house and retire to Stranraer,
until it should please God to remove his wrath from the
land. He took this step, because there he could procure
subsistence for money, although the price was exorbitant.

With regret they bade adieu to the scenes of their former
happiness ; and, taking all their valuables and cash, locked
up their home ; and, with their one horse, which carried
the load, accompanied by Colin, now old and blind, led by
Helen, the sad procession moved on their dull and weary
way. The land was desolate ; it was the beginning of June,
yet not a bud was to be seen ; the whins shewed only their
gaudy yellow flowers, as if in mockery of the surrounding
dreary scenes. Arrived at Stranraer, they found their situ-
ation much more comfortable ; as provisions could be had

there, although the prices were exorbitant. Several of the
inhabitants imported grain from England and Ireland, in small
quantities, for themselves and such as could purchase at
the price they demanded for it — which comparatively few
could ; and what was thus brought was in a manner con-
cealed, for the magistrate, by act of the Estates of Scotland,
had the power to seize any store of grain, either in passing
through the burgh or concealed in it, and sell it to the
people at their own price. This prevented those who could
from importing it from a distance, save in small quantities.

Helen's heart bled to see the famishing multitudes wander-
ing along the beach at high water, like shadows— so thin, so
wasted — looking with longing eyes for the retreat of the tide,
that they might commence their search for any shell-fish they
could find upon the rocks, or any other substance which
the ingenuity of man could convert to food, however loath-
some, to satisfy the hunger that was consuming them
There were to be seen mothers, bearing their infants —
unmindful of the rain that for days poured down, more or
less ; and fathers, more resembling spectres than men, either
upon their knees in the middle of their family, imploring
heaven for aid, or following the wave in its slow retreat to
the utmost bound with anxious looks, exulting if their
search procured them a few limpets or wilks.

During this tedious summer, William Kerr returned
occasionally to his deserted farm ; but it lay waste and unin-
viting, more resembling a swamp than arable land. His
heart fell within him at the sight. No one had called ;
everything remained as it was ; even the direction he had writ-
ten upon his door, telling where he was to be found, remained
undefaced, save by the pelting rain. Towards autumn the
weather became more warm and dry, and promised a change
for the better. The family, with joy, returned once more
to the farm, to prepare for better seasons. As soon as they
entered the cold damp house, where fire had not been
kindled for many months, Colin, the faithful and sagacious
dog, blind as he was, gave a feeble bark for joy, ran totter-
ing round each well-remembered spot ; then, stretching him-
self on his wonted lair beside the fire, which Helen was
busy kindling, licked her hand as she patted his head,
stretched his limbs, gave a faint howl, and expired. All
felt as if they had lost a friend.

This winter was more mild than any that had been
remembered for many years, and gave token of an early and
genial spring. The famine was still very severe ; but hope
began to appear in the faces of the most reduced and de-
sponding. William Kerr procured seed corn from Stran-
raer, and distributed some among his less wealthy neigh-
bours to sow their lands.

For eleven long years no word had been received of Willie,
the widow's son, as he had been called, although he had been
often the subject of discourse at William Kerr's fireside.
The little ebony box had never been opened since the day
of the funeral. " There was now little chance of his ever
returning to receive its contents, and far less of Helen's ever
leaving Minniegaff in quest of him ; and, as Elizabeth had
allowed Helen, if she chose, to read the papers, William
and Grizzel proposed that she should do so. She immediately
opened it, and took out the packet, which was neatly sealed,
and tied by a ribbon There was no direction upon it.
Having broken it open, the first paper was found to be
directed " To William B of B ;" and ran thus :—-

"My DEAR WILLIAM, — You will not have seen this
until I am in the world of spirits, and I hope the communion
of saints in heaven, through Jesus our Lord. You have
ever believed that I am your parent ; but I am not. I am
only your aunt — your father being a much younger brother,
who was the delight of his mother and myself; for, from his
earliest dawning of reason, his mind was of a pious turn,
and we loved him as much as he was the aversion of his
father. His eldei brother had engrossed all his parent's love ;

230

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

for he was more like himself, and cared not for anything
that savoured of the fear of God. My father had been a
Cavalier, and suffered a share of his sovereign's misfortunes,
and hated the Covenanters with a perfect hatred ; but he
interfered not with his pious wife in her mode of worship,
until your father shewed an aversion, when yet a boy, to
ioin in the profanity and revelry which he and his elder son
delighted in. It was after this that he began to storm and
threaten his wife, for instilling her puritanical notions, as he
called them, into his children. We were immediately taken
from her. I was sent to an aunt of his own opinion ; and
Andrew, your father, to the University in Paris. Your
father I never heard of for some years. My mother I never
saw again until she was upon her deathbed, when she gave
me the jewels you will find in the box with this. Make
a good use of them, and may they prove a blessing, in
placing you above want, if I am taken away before you are
claimed by your father, which he will do if he lives, and is
allowed to return to Scotland ; if not, you will be enabled
to trace him out by their means. But I must proceed : — I
was still residing with my father's aunt, when your father
returned to Scotland, bringing with him from France a
Scottish lady of family, whom he had married there. Being
very uncomfortably situated, I went to reside with him.
The troubles about religion, which distracted the country,
had been laying it waste for some time. Your father took
a leading part for the Covenant, and joined the insurgents.
The fatal battle of Bothwell Bridge was fought. Your
father was dangerously wounded ; but escaped. He was
concealed by a faithful servant, and brought home, where
we concealed him from the search that was made, until his
recovery. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution,
never recovered the shock. She sickened, and died before
her husband was convalescent. Your father was obliged to
fly his country in disguise ; his property was confiscated, and
(i price set upon his head ; for, though he had been seen to fall,
his body had not been found. I was driven from his house,
and retired to this wild as a place of security, of which I
informed your father. He was, when I wrote this, at the
Hague, a merchant, and wealthy. You were too young to
remember any of these events, and I was as familiar in your
sight as your sainted mother. If you apply to the Prince
of Orange, should your father be dead, he will be your
friend for his sake. ELIZABETH B >."

The next paper was a letter in a neat female hand, which
had evidently been blotted by the tears either of the writer
or the reader ; for it was blistered in many places, and the
ink effaced.

" MY Lovmo ELIZABETH, — Pity me ; for my heart is
broken — I am weighed down by many sorrows, and have
no one to whom I can relieve this bursting heart but you.
Alas ! the illusions of love are gone. I am now the aversion
of my lord. I fear his love for me is fled for ever, in spite
of all my endeavours to please him. At the birth of my
beauteous babe, he left the castle in displeasure. Unfeeling
Charles ! when I expected rapture in his eye at the sight
of his child, he turned from it as if he loathed it, because it
was not a boy. For eighteen months he has been in Lon-
don, at the court, and returned only a few weeks since.
Alas ! how his manner is changed ! I am treated with harsh-
ness and scorn. The only consolation I have now left, he
threatens to deprive me of, and send her, young as she is,
to a nunnery in France, and make her profess. I have
been on my knees again and again to my cruel lord to
allow me to be her companion. This he sternly refuses. Oh,
teach me, my dear Eliza, how 1 may soften his obdurate
heart ; for, cruel as he is, I love him still, and would die a
thousand deaths rather than offend him. Had I never loved
him so sincerely, I never had been so miserable. Holy
Virgin, be my aid ! and all the saints befriend me ! I know
it is not because I am an unworthy daughter of the uni-

versal church that he now has ceased to love me ', for he
knew I was so before we wed. He, alas ! cares for nothing
holy ; and, in his conversation, even favours the church of
my faith. Again, I implore, advise and pity me, your poor
and heart-broken

LOUISA B ."

The only other paper was also a letter in the same hand,
as follows : —

" MY DEAR ELIZABETH, — Fate has done its worst, and
my heart is not broken, neither am I distracted. I am
bereft of my treasure ; it was torn from me by its unnatural
father with threats and imprecations. 1 know no more ; for
nature sank under his cruelty. When I recovered, my lord —
now my lord no longer — had left the castle. I would have
followed, though I knew not whither ; but I was detained a
prisoner in my room, and denied the presence of every one,
except strange menials he had appointed as my keepers.
I have succeeded in my attempt, and am now with my
uncle. I leave this land, in which I have suffered so much,
for France, in search of my heart's treasure ; nor will I
cease my wanderings until I find my child. Farewell ! per-
haps for ever !

LOUISA B ."

Helen and the now aged Grizzel shed tears over the
sufferings of Louisa, replaced the papers, and wished that
William might once more return, if it were for no more than
to inquire if he could say whether his relation had found
her child or not. The packet could reveal nothing to him
but what he already knew.

The following summer was genial and warm, and the
crops luxuriant to profusion. Nature appeared anxious to
make amends for the barrenness of the preceding years.
Famine had disappeared, but poverty had laid its cold hand
upon many a family who before had never known want.
The more fortunate William Kerr and Helen distributed
their aid with a liberal hand to all around them ; his farm
had resumed its wonted cheerful appearance ; and Helen
occasionally visited the Eldrich Stone, as she went out of a
summer evening to meet the worthy farmer on his return
from the hill. The harvest had been gathered in, and a
public thanksgiving made in all the churches for its abund-
ance, when, towards the end of the year, the worthy old
minister died, beloved and regretted by all. His executor
sent to William Kerr the small piece of paper his wife had
found in the clothes of Helen, with a certificate of the date
and circumstances carefully written out at the time. So
little had they thought of it, as of any importance, that its
existence was almost forgotten. Helen put it into the same
box with the papers left in her charge by Elizabeth, and
thought no more of it. Happy, loving and beloved by her
foster parents, she had no other wish on earth but to see
them happy by contributing to their comfort. The new
incumbent of the parish, a pious young man, was most
assiduous in the performance of his public duties — visiting
all his parishioners with a parent's care, speaking consolation
to the afflicted, and soothing down any little animosities
that arose among them ; but it was observed that he
called oftener at William Kerr's, and remained longer there,
than at any other of the houses in the parish ; and it was
whispered by the young maidens that Helen was, more than
the old man and his wife, the inducement for these num-
erous and protracted visits.

The truth was, that he loved Helen, and was not looked
upon by her with indifference; his many virtues had won
her esteem, which is near akin to love, and she received his
attentions with a secret pleasure, though no declaration of
love had yet been made by him. In one of their walks, which
had been protracted more than v*ual, they were returning
homewards by the Eldrich Stone The evening was mild and
serene for the season ; Helen's arm was in his. She felt no
fatigue ; but stopped, from habit, at the ^niuch loved-spot A

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

231

thought of Willie passed through her mind ; a faint wish to
know if he were dead or alive rose in her bosom ; and her
head dropped with a sigh as she thought of'his being numbered
with the dead. The anxious lover remarked the change ; and,
taking Helen by the hand, inquired, with a tremulous voice,
the cause of her melancholy. The ingenuous girl laid open
to him the cause, and a pang of jealousy wrung his heart
as he dropped her hand. " Helen," he would have said,
' you love another ;" but such was the agitation of his mind,
that his tongue refused utterance to his thoughts.

In silence they walked side by side to the farmer's, as if
the faculty of speech had been taken from them. Contrary
to his wont, the minister did not enter the gate to the en-
closure, but, stopping short, wrung Helen's hand as he bade
her good night, and hurried away before she could inquire
the cause of his agitation. She burst into tears, and stood
looking after him. He stopped, and with a quick step she saw
him returning. She still stood in the same spot, her eyes
following his every motion. Again he approached, and, lean-
ing upon the gate where she still stood, said, in a voice almost
choked —

" Helen, do you love that person ?"
" As a brother I love him, and cherish his memory," the
agitated Helen replied.

A groan burst from the minister as he ran from the spot
Helen entered the house, for the first time in her life, a prey
to anguish. What could be the cause of the sudden change
in the manners of the minister, she was at a loss to conceive.
She retired to bed, but not to rest.

For several days she saw nothing of her lover. He had
never left the manse. On the Sabbath following, Helen and
her parents were in their usual place in the church ; but she
had a shade of care upon her lovely countenance which no
one had ever seen there before. Contrary to her wont, her
eyes were never once directed to the pulpit, while the preacher
sought her face with more than usual anxiety. Although
there was a tremuloUsness in his voice at the commencement
of the service, he preached with more than his usual eloquence
and fervour.

At the conclusion of the service, the pious hearers crowded
round their pastor; but it was remarked that, although
William Kerr and his wife shook hands with him, Helen
passed on out of the churchyard unaccompanied by him,
and without being recognised. The worthy pair were not
less astonished than the rest of the spectators, and wondered
much what could have caused the change. On their way
home, they inquired at Helen, who, without reserve, gave them
an account of all that had occurred at their last interview.
The good dame smiled.

" He will soon come back again," said she ; " it's a gooc
sign — only a little jealousy of Willie."

" I am sure," replied Helen, " he need not be jealous of my
loving my brother ; for I shall always love him as such."

Grizzel was right : in the course of the following week
the minister was as much abroad as ever, and spent more
than his usual time with the Kerrs. All was explained
to the satisfaction of both parties, and a mutual declaration
of love followed. Helen Kerr was soon after led a bride
to the manse, and became its ornament and boast. With
the plenishing of the bride, the old carved oak chest o
Elizabeth was also taken, the ebony box was opened, and
for the first time, her husband knew of the treasure pos-
sessed by his wife. With a playful violence he pushed it from
him, and clasped her in his arms.

" Helen," said he, " you are the jewel I prize ; put awaj

from my sight these baubles. But what papers are these ?"

" I am afraid to let you look upon them," said she, " fo

they are Willie's ; and it is dangerous for me, you know, t

speak of him."

She undid the ribbon and handed them to him. He rea<
them over with care, along with the slip of paper written ii

rench, and compared the hand in which it was written with
lie two letters. Resting his head upon his hand, he mused
or some time, then again compared them, and seemed lost in
liought.

" Helen," said he at length, " a strange fancy lias taken
ossession of me — that you are in someway or other con-
nected with these papers. It is so improbable that I am
greatly at a loss to conceive how it can be ; yet the conviction
s not the less strong upon my mind. There is a similarity
n the handwriting of the letters that struck me at once.
Their date, and the date of my predecessor's certificate, are
^ery near each other ; there is not a month between the first
etter and the certificate, and the second letter is a short
ime after the date of that document. It is very strange ;
md God, in his good time, if agreeable to his will, may brin^
11 to light."

About eighteen months after this conversation, Helen,
one day, as was her wont, had walked over to William Kerr's,
vith her young son in her arms, to spend an hour or two
>vith them, and wait until her husband called, on his return
o the manse, from his visits. William had the babe on his
cnee, and was talking to it, with all the fondness of age,
about its mother, when he first had her on his knees in the
same chair and at the same hearth. Their attention was
xcited by the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.
Helen started up, and ran to the window, to see who it
might be. She could not recognise them : it was a gentle-
man in a military undress, attended by a servant. The first
dismounted, and, giving his horse to the attendant, stepped
lastily to the door, which he opened with the freedom of
an old acquaintance ; and, before she could leave the window,
was in the room. Helen recognised him at a glance.

"It is Willie, father," she cried, in a voice of joy. " I
am so happy to see you again, and well ! — for we all thought
you had been dead."

It was indeed Willie ; but he appeared not to partake of
lie joy of those who greeted him with such fervour. He
razed at Helen, and then at the babe she now held in her
arms, in silence; and a deep shade of disappointment clouded
lis brow. He had stood thus for a minute or two in
silence, with a hand of each of the old people grasped in his.
Helen felt awkward and abashed at his melancholy and
imploring glance ; and, turning from it, appeared busy
with her son. Willie seated himself, and seemed as if in a
fit of abstraction, his eyes still fixed on the object of
his early love, and strong emotion depicted on his counte-
nance. The sight of the child had awakened suspi-
cions which he was not for a time able to confirm or
dissipate by a simple question ; and his agitation was
so extreme that no one present could call up resolution
enough to explain to him how or when Helen had changed
her situation. The silence was painful to all, but to
none more than to Willie himself; for he could read in
the looks of William and Grizzel the reason why they
were unwilling to speak. They felt for him ; and Helen's
eye was filled with a tear, as she looked up blushingly into
the face of one who had claimed the first love offering of
her virgin heart. This state of painful and too eloquent
silence was put an end to by him who had most to dread
from a disclosure. Starting, as if by an effort forcing him-
self out of a train of thoughts, he held out his finger, and
pointed to the babe that was looking up smiling into the
face of Helen, in whose eye the tear still stood —

" Is it possible, Helen ?" said he, in a voice choking with
strong emotion, and unable to get out the rest of the sen-
tence, the meaning of which his pointed finger sufficiently
indicated.

Helen was silent ; the blush rose higher on her face,
and the tear dropped on the face of the child. William and
Grizzel looked at each other as if each wished the other to
speak.

232

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"Speak, Helen," said Willie, partly recovering himself,
" Can it be ?" and he again faltered.

His emotion stopped still more effectually the voice of
Helen, who hid her face on the breast of her child.

" Indeed, and it is just sae," at last said Grizzel. " That
is Helen's bairn, and as bonny a ane it is as she was hersel
when we found her by the Eldrich Stane, wi' her head
restin on the side o' puir auld Colin, wha is since dead.
Ah, Willie, ye hae yersel to blame ; for ye never let us
ken whether ye were dead or alive."

Willie drew his hand over his eyes, and was silent.
There was another subject that pressed upon his heart, and
one which he equally feared to broach by a question.

" And Elizabeth, my more than mother," he ejaculated
in a broken voice — " what of her ?"

" She's in the kirkyard o' Minniegaff," answered Grizzel.
" The sods are again grown thegither, and the grass is
hail and green owre her grave."

" Oh, did I expect to meet all this !" muttered the un-
happy man, as he held his hands upon his face. There was
again silence in the cottage. " Had my dear friend plenty,
and was she well cared for in her last moments ?" he con-
tinued, with the same broken voice.

" Nane o' us had plenty at that dreadful time," answered
Grizzel ; " death was the only creature that seemed to hae
aneugh. We killed auld Hawky, to save the life o' puir
Elizabeth ; but her time was come. She died i' the fear o'
God ; and you, Willie, that was her only love on earth, was
her last thought, as she left this warld for that better ane
whar friends dinna forget their auld benefactors."

" You are unkind, Grizzel," said he, " to add to my
present sorrow, by the reproof contained in that hint. I
have to you the appearance of being undutiful ; but I was
so situated that it was not in my power to communicate
with her by letter ; and to visit her in person was im-
possible. I would have been here years since, if I could
have accomplished it ; for I can solemnly declare, my heart
has been ever here."

" I believe ye, Willie," replied Grizzel — " I was owre
hasty. Ye could hae dune her nae guid, even if ye had
been here ; for at that time the hand o' God was upon our
sinfu' land, and the assistance o' man was o' nae avail.
But your Helen mightna hae been the minister's wife this
day, if ye had been mair mindfu' o' Minniegaff an' yer
auld friends."

The secret which was paining Willie was now fully
revealed. The sad truth that he had lost her of whom he
had dreamed for years in foreign lands, and to see whom
he had journeyed night and day, with the hope of being
blessed at the termination of his journey, was fully dis-
closed. With not again seeing Elizabeth, he had laid his
account ; but that he should lose Helen had never once
entered his mind ; and the intelligence, accompanied as it
was with the painful vision of seeing her a mother, with
the pledge of her love for another sitting smiling on her
knee, was too painful to be endured. For some time he
again sat silent and moody; but the evil was of that irremedi-
able nature that often contributes to it cures ; and, as
the first emotion wore off, he gratified his auditors with
a statement of what had befallen himself since he left
Minniegaff.

" It was with, a trusty servant I left Elizabeth to join
my father in London, who had come over from his long
exile in the train of King William. Upon my arrival, I was
received with rapture by my beloved parent, and introduced
to my sovereign. Proper masters were engaged to finish
my education. As soon as I was thought ready, I received
a captain s commission in the army, and set out with my
regiment for Ireland. I was present at the battle of the
Boyne where my uncle fell, he having joined the army of
James ; and my father became, b.y this event, the represent-

ative of the family. Being' in favour with the court, the
attainder was reversed. I rose rapidly, and had important
trusts committed to my charge, which required my utmost
vigilance. My mind was so occupied with public affairs,
that I had little time for indulging in my own private feel-
ings. I heard of the sufferings in Scotland, and wrote
twice ; but these letters appeared not to have reached, as I
received no answer. I could not send a special messenger,
as I was in another country, and had no one I could with
confidence trust. I was also in hopes, from year to year, of
being relieved, and coming in person ; and thus twelve
tedious years have rolled on."

Willie had just finished, when Helen's husband entered,
and was introduced by her. Willie shook hands with
him, but not with that cordiality he had done with the
former. There was during tea a constraint which gradually
wore off; and mutual confidence being restored, they wera
as open with each other and kind, as if they had long been
friends. The minister said that he had papers in his pos-
session which Elizabeth had left in Helen's charge, and
which he and Helen had read, as Elizabeth had allowed ;
and mentioned the strange surmises :he had regarding the
connection his wife had with them. Willie listened in
mute astonishment, and the conflict that was passing in his
mind was strongly marked upon his open and generous
countenance.

" It cannot be," he said at length ; " for my uncle always
declared that he had sent his child to France by a trusty
agent, from whence he had letters of their safe arrival. He
shewed these letters to the relations of his wife, my aunt-in-
law, but never would inform them where he had placed
her, or who the agent was. My aunt, who is still alive, has
used every effort to learn its fate in vain, and still mourns
the loss of her babe."

The minister afterwards walked over to the manse
and brought the papers. Willie at once recognised the
handwriting as that of his aunt. Rising, he embraced
Helen, kissed her cheek, and owned her for his cousin. Next

morning his servant was sent off express to H Castle, with

a packet to his aunt, who had for several years resided there
— having given up her fruitless search on the Continent.
In a few days she arrived at the manse, and embraced Helen
as her long-lost daughter. The scrap of paper she kissed
again and again, as the means of her present happiness.
The silken dress in which Helen was found, had been care-
fully preserved. She had sewed it with her own hand, and
it had been last put on by herself ; for Grizzel thought it too
fine for her to wear. Not a doubt remained. Willie, the
widow's sou, joined the army again, and made a conspicuous
figure in the wars of Queen Anne. Helen's mother took up
her residence in the manse, and once more, in the close of her
life, enjoyed that happiness in her grandchildren's infancy
she had been denied in her own. The unfeigned piety and
example of her daughter and her husband, gradually weaned
her from her early faith, which had been much shaken in her
melancholy hours, by the studies she had pursued to solace
her grief. Till her death she was a devout member of her
son-in-law's flock, and is yet remembered to have been hear
talked of as the Good Lady.

WILSON'S

I, STraiu'ttonarj), an&

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH

IT has been stated by the greatest critics the ivorld ever saw —
whose names we would mention, if we did not wish to
avoid interfering with the simplicity of our humble annals —
that no fictitious character ought to be made at once virtuous
and unfortunate ; and the reason given for it is, that man-
kind, having a natural tendency to a belief of an adjustment,
even in this world, of the claims of virtue and the deserts
of vice, are displeased with a representation which at once
overturns this belief and creates dissatisfaction with the
ways of Providence. This may be very good criticism, and
we have no wish to find fault with it as applied to works
intended to produce a certain effect on the minds of readers ;
but, so long as Nature and Providence work with machinery
whose secret springs are hid from our view, and evince —
doubtless for wise purposes — a disregard of the adjust,
ment of rewards and punishments for virtue and vice,
we shall not want a higher authority than critics for exhibit-
ing things as they are, and portraying on the page of
truth, wet with unavailing tears, goodness that went to the
grave, not only unrewarded, but struck down with griefs
that should have dried the heart and grizzled the hairs of
the wicked.

In a little haugh that runs parallel to the Tweed — at a
part of its course not far from Peebles., and through which
there creeps, over a bed of white pebbles, a little burn, whose
voice is so small, except at certain places where a larger
stone raises its "sweet anger" to the height of a tiny "buller,"
that the lowest note of the goldfinch drowns it and charms
it to silence — there stood, about the middle of the last century,
a cottage, whose white walls and dark roof, with some white
roses and honeysuckle flowering on its walls, bespoke the
humble retreat of contentment and comfort. The place
went by the name of Bramblehaugh, from the sides of the
small burn being lined, for several miles, with the wild plant
whose name has entered into the composition of that of the
hollow or haugh where it grew. The sloping collateral
ground was covered with shrubs and trees of various kinds,
which harboured, in the summer months, a great collection
of birds — the blackbird, the starling, the mavis, and others
of the tuneful choir — whose notes rendered harmonious
the secluded scene where they sang unmolested. The
spot is one of those which, scattered sparingly over a wild
country, woo the footsteps of lovers of nature, and, by
a few months of their simple charms, regenerate the health,
while they quicken and gratify the business-clouded fancies
of the denizens of smoky towns.

The cottage we have now described was occupied by David
Mearns, and his wife Elizabeth, called, by our national con-
traction, Betty. These individuals earned a livelihood, and
nothing more, by the mode in which poor cotters in Scotland
contrive to spin out an existence; Ihe leading feature of which,
contentment, the result of necessity, is often falsely denomi-
nated happiness by those whose positive pleasures, checkered
by a few misfortunes, are forgotten in the contemplation of a
state of life almost entirely negative. Difficulties that
cannot be overcome deaden the energies that have in vain
been exerted to surmount them ; and, when all efforts to
J34. VOL. III.

better our condition are relinquished, we acquire a credit
for ^ contentedness, which is only a forced adaptation of
limited means to an unchangeable end. David Mearns, who
had, in his younger days, been ruined by a high farm, had
learned from misfortune what he would not have been very
apt to have received from the much-applauded philosophy
which is said to generate a disposition to be pleased with our
lot. The bitterness of disappointment, and the wish to get
beyond the reach of obligations he could not discharge,
suggested the remedy of a reliance simply on his capability
of earning a cotter's subsistence ; and having procured a
cheap lease of the little domicile of Bramblehaugh, he set
himself down, with the partner of his hopes and misfortunes,
to eat, with that simulated contentment we have noticed,
the food of his hard labour, with the relish of health, and to
extract from the lot thus forced upon him as much happi-
ness as it would yield. The cottage and the small piece ol
ground attached to it, was the property of an old man, who
having made a great deal of money by the very means that
had failed in the hands, of David Mearns, had purchased the
property of Burnbank, lying on the side of the small rivulet
already mentioned, and, in consequence, it was said, of Betty
Mearns bearing the same name, (Cherrytrees,) though there
was no relationship between them, had let to David the
small premises at a low rent.

A single child had blessed the marriage of David Mearns
and his wife — a daughter, called Euphemia, though generally,
for the sake of brevity and kindliness, called Effie ; an in-
teresting girl, who, at the period we speak of, had arrived
at the age of sixteen years. In a place where there were
few to raise the rude standard of beauty formed in the
minds of a limited country population, she was accounted
"bonny" — a much-abused word, no doubt, in Scotland, but
yet having a very fair and legitimate application to an in-
teresting young creature, whose blue eyes, however little
real town beauty they may have expressed or illuminated,
gave out much tenderness and feeling, accompanied by that
inexpressible look of pure, unaffected modesty, which is
the first but the most difficult gesture of the female man-
ner attempted to be imitated by those who are destitute
of the feeling that produces it. An expression of pen-
siveness — perhaps the fruit of the early misfortunes of hei
parents operating on the tender mind of infancy, ever quick
in catching, with instinctive sympathy, the feeling that sad-
dens or enlivens the spirits of a mother — was seldom abroad
from her countenance, imparting to it a deep interest, and,
by suggesting a wish to relieve the cause of so early ^an in-
dication of incipient melancholy, creating an instant
friendship, which subsequent intercourse did not diminish,

Walter Cherrytrees, the Laird of Burnbank, a man ap-
proaching seventy years of age, had a daughter, Lucy, about
the same age as Effie Mearns. He had lost his wife about
fifteen years before ; and — though a feeling of anxiousness
often found its way to his heart, suggesting to his vacant mind,
as the cure of his listlessness and the balm of his bereave-
ment, another wife — he had for a long time been nearly
equally poised between the hope of Lucy becoming his com-
fort in his old age, and the wish for a tender partner of
pleasures which, without participation, lose their relish-
His daughter, Lucy, was a sprightly, showy girl, who,

234

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

having got a good education, might, with the prospect she
had of inheriting her father's property, have been entitled
to look for a husband among the sons of the neighbouring
proprietors, if her father's secluded mode of life, and plain
blunt manners, had not to a great extent limited her inter-
course to a few acquaintances, by no means equal to him in
point of wealth or status, however estimable they might
have been in other respects. A more pleasant companion to
the old Laird of Burnbank could not be found, from the one
end of Bramblehaugh to the other, than David Mearns, his
tenant, whose honesty and bluntness, set off by a fertility
of simple anecdote, had charms for one of the same habits of
thought and feeling, which all the disadvantages of his
poverty could not counterbalance. The intimacy of the
fathers produced, at a very early period, a friendship between
the daughters, who, however, could not boast of the resem-
blance of thought and manners, and community of feeling,
which formed the foundation of the attachment which ex-
isted between the parents.

This friendship was not exclusive of some acquaintance-
ships with the neighbouring young men and women, which,
however, were in general mutual ; neither of the two
young maidens having formed any intimacy with another
without her friend participating in the friendship. Among
others, Lewis Campbell, the son of a neighbouring farmer,
who had been a large creditor of David Mearns at the time
of his failure, called sometimes at the cottage of Bramble-
haugh, and was soon smitten with a strong love for Effie.
They sometimes indulged in long walks by the side of the
river.

We may anticipate, when we say that the hours spent
in these excursions — in which the greatest beauties of ex-
ternal nature, and the strongest and purest emotions of two
loving hearts, acting in co-operation and harmony, formed
a present and a future such as poets dream of, and the world
never realizes, but in momentary glimpses — were the hap-
piest of these lovers. Effie's inseparable companion, Lucy,
frequently met them as they sauntered along by the house
of Burnbank ; and the soft breathings of ardent affection
were relieved by the gay and innocent prattle of the com-
panions, who enjoyed, though in different degrees, the con-
versation and manners of the young lover. The simplicity
and single-heartedness of Effie were entirely exclusive of a
single thought unfavourable to an equal openness and frank-
ness on the part of her companion, whom she had informed,
in her artless way, of the state of her affections. But what
might not have resulted from a mere acquaintanceship
between Lucy and Effie's lover, was called forth by the
pride of the former, whose spirit of emulation, excited by
the good fortune of her poor friend, suggested a secret wish
to alienate the affections of Lewis from her companion,
and direct them to herself. The wish to be beloved, though
the mere effect of emulation, is the surest of the artificial
modes by which love itself is generated in the heart of the
wisher; and Lucy soon became, unknown fora time to Effie,
as much enamoured of young Lewis as was her unsuspect-
ing friend.

The first intimation that Effie received of the state of
Lucy's feelings towards her lover, was from Lewis himself.
Sitting at a part of the haugh called the Cross Knowe, from
the circumstance of an old Romish cruciform stone that
stood on the top of a gentle elevation — a place much
resorted to by the lovers — Lewis, unable to conceal a
single thought or feeling from one who so well deserved
his confidence, first told her of the perfidy of her friend.

" You are not so well supplied with sweethearts, Effie,"
he began, " as I am ; for I can boast of two besides you."

" That speaks little in your favour, Lewie," replied she ;
" for, if it was my wish, I could hae a' the young men o'
the haugh makin love to me frae mornin to e'en."

" That remark, Effie/' said Lewis, " implies that I

have courted, or at least Deceived marks of affection, from
others besides you, while I was leading you to suppose that
my heart was entirely yours. Now, that is not justified by
what I said ; for one may have sweethearts, and neither
know nor acknowledge them as such."

Maybe I am wrang, Lewie," said Effie ; " but what
was I to think but that the twa ither sweethearts ye men-
tioned were acknowledged by ye ? It's no in the pooer o'
my puir heart to conceive hoo a young woman could love
ane that neither kenned nor acknowledged her love. But
I speak frae my ain simple, an' maybe worthless thoughts.
The world's wide, an' haulds black an' fair, weak an' strong,
heigh and laigh; an' wharfore no also hearts an' minds
as different as their bodies ? The birds of this haugh hae
only their ain single luves ; but they're a' coloured alike
that belang to ae kind. Would that it had been God's
pleasure to male mankind like thae bonny birds !"

" I fear, Effie," replied Lewis, " that a statement of mine,
intended to be partly in jest, has been construed by you
in such a manner as to produce to you pain. God is my
witness that I am as single-hearted in my affection as the
birds of this haugh ; and gaudier colours, sweeter notes,
and better scented bowers will never interfere with the love
I bear to Effie Mearns."

" What meant ye, then, Lewie, by sayin ye had twa
sweethearts besides Effie Mearns ?" said she.

" That you shall immediately know," replied Lewis; " and
you will thii4k more highly of me when I shew you, by my
revealing secrets, not indeed confided to me, but still secrets,
that you have all my heart and the thoughts that it con-
tains. The first of my other lovers you will not be jealous
of, for she is old Lizzy Buchanan, or, as she calls herself,
Bu \vhanan, my nurse, who loves me as well as you do, Effie ;
but the other, I fear, may create in you an unpleasant
feeling of confidence misplaced, and friendship repaid by
something like treachery. Surely I need say no more."

" Is it indeed sae, Lewie ?" said she. " It's lang sin' I
whispered — and my heart beat and my limbs trembled as
I did it — in the ear o' Lucy Cherrytrees, that my puir, silly
thoughts were never aff Lewie Campbell. And what think
ye she said to me ? She said I neednalook far ayont Bramble-
haugh for a bonnier and a brawer lover."

" Then," replied Lewis, " I am not much better off than
you are ; for she told me that your simplicity, she feared, was
art, and that your poverty made any beauty you had ; and
she doubted if that bonny face was not a great snare for the
ruin of a penniless lover."

" Sae, sae," said she, sighing deeply; "and has the fair
face o' a lire's friendship put on the looks o' the hypocrite at
the very time when a greater confidence was required ? I hae
read in Laird Cherrytrees' books he is sae kind as lend me,
many an example o' fause and faithless creatures, baith men
and women, o' the world, o' the great cities that lie far ayont
oor humble sphere ; but little did I think that here, in
Bramblehaugh, where oor bughts ken nae nicht-thieves, and
our hen-roosts nae reynards, there was ane, and that ane my
friend, wha could smile in my face at the very moment she
was tryin to ruin me in the eyes o' ane wha is dearest to me
on earth."

As she thus poured forth her feelings with greater
loquacity than she generally exhibited — being for the most
part quiet and gentle — the tears flowed down her cheeks in
zreat profusion, and she sobbed bitterly, in spite of all the
efforts of Lewis to satisfy her that Lucy's endeavours to lessen
lier in his estimation were entirely fruitless.

" Apprehend nothing, dear Effie, from the discovered
treachery of a false friend," said he, as he pressed her to his
bosom. "It has less power with me than the whispers of that
jentle burn have on the sleeping echoes of the Eagle's Roci
that only answer to the voice of the tempest."

" It's no that, Lewie," replied she, wiping away her tears

TALES OF THE UORDERS.

235

"that gies me pain. I hae nae fear o' faith and troth that
has been pledged, and better than pledged ; for I hae seen it
i' yer looks, and heard it i' the sounds o' yer deep-drawn
sighs. Thae tears are for a broken friendship— for the return
o' evil for guid — for the withered blossoms o' a bonny flower
I hae cherished and watered, in the hope it wad yield me a
sweet smell when I kissed its leaves i' the daffin o' youth
or the kindliness o' age. If it is sae sair to lose a friend,
what, Lewie — what wad it be to lose a lover ?"

" The very existence of great evils, Effie," said he, " makes
us happy, in the thought that they are beyond our reach."

"But did I no think," said she, "that I was beyond
the reach o' the pain o' experiencing the fauseness o' Lucy
Cherrytrees — the very creature, o' a' ithers,! hae chosen asmy
bosom friend — to whom I confided a' my thochts and the very
secret o' my love?"

appreciate your
have experienced the faithlessness of

my

" But it is an ill wind that blaws naebody guid, as they
say, Effie," said Lewis. "I can better appreciate vour
goodness, now that
another."

" An if I hae lost a friend," replied Effie, " I am the
mair sure o' my lover. Ye dinna ken, Lewie, hoo muckle
this has raised you even in my mind, whar ye hae aye
occupied the highest place. Ye hae rejected the offered luve
o' the braw heiress o' Burnbank, for the humble dochter o'
David M earns, wha earns his bread in the sweat o' his brow.
Oh ! what can a puir, penniless cottager's dochter gie, in
return, to the man wha, for her sake, turns his back on a
big ha', a thoosand braid acres, an' a braw heiress ?"

" Her simple, genuine, unsophisticated heart," replied
Lewis, " with one unchangeable, devoted affection beating
in its core. Were Burnbank flail as big as the Parliament
House, and Burnbank itself longer than the lands watered by
the Brambleburn, and Lucy Cherrytrees as fair as our un-
fortunate Mary Stuart, I would not give my simple Effie,
with no more property of her own than the bandeau that
binds her fair locks, for Lucy Cherrytrees and all her lands."

The two lovers continued their evening walks, indulging
in conversations which, embracing the subject of their affec-
tion, and anticipating the pleasures of their ultimate union,
realized that fullest enjoyment of hope which is said to
transcend possession. No notice was taken of their mutual
sentiments on the subject of Lucy Cherrytrees' affection for
Lewis, and her unjustifiable attempts to displace her old
friend, to make room for herself in the heart of the contested
object of their wishes.

Matters continued in this state for some time, Effie being
regularly gratified by a visit from Lewis three times a-week.
On one occasion a whole week passed without any intelli-
gence of her lover. Her inquiries had produced no satis-
factory explanation of the unusual occurrence ; and Fancy,
under the spell of the Genius of Fear, was busy in her
vocation of drawing dark pictures of coming evil. At last
she was told by her father, who had procured the intelli-
gence from a friend of George Campbell, the father, that
young Lewis had been suspected of an intention to marry
the poor daughter of the cottager, David Mearns, and had
been dispatched, without a minute's premonition, to an uncle,
who was a merchant in Rio de Janeiro. No time had been
given to him to write to Effie ; and care had been taken to
prevent him from sending her any intelligence while he
remained at Liverpool, previous to his departure. The
statement was corroborated by intelligence to the same effect,
procured by one of Laird Cherrytrees' servants from one of
the servants of George Campbell, who told it to Lucy, and
who again told it to Effie, with tears in her eyes, which
she took every care to conceal. The effect produced on the
mind of Effie Mearns, by this unexpected misfortune, was
proportioned to its magnitude, and the susceptibility of the
feelings of the delicate individual on whom it operated. For
many days she wept incessantly — refusing the ordinary

sustenance of a life which she now deemed of no im-
portance to herself or to any one else. All attempts at
comforting a bruised heart were — as they generally are in
cases of disappointed love— unavailing ; and the effects of
time seemed only apparent in a quieter, though not in any
degree less poignant sorrow Every object kept alive the
remembrance of the youth who had first made an impression
on her heart, and whose image was graven on every spot of
the neighbourhood, which had been consecrated by the ex-
change of a mutual passion. The scenes of their wan-
derings, hallowed as they had been in her memory, were now
peopled with undefined terrors ; and every time that she was
forced abroad to take that air and exercise which latterly
seemed indispensable to her existence, her sorrow received
an accession of power from every tree under which they
had sat, and every knowe or dell where they had listened
to the musical loves of the birds, as they exchanged their
own in not less eloquent sighs.

The first circumstance that produced any effect on the
mind of the disconsolate maiden, was a misfortune of another
kind, which, realizing the old adage, seemed to follow with
all due rapidity the footsteps of its precursor. Her mother,
who sat on one side of the fire, while Effie occupied her
usual seat in a corner of the cottage in the other, had been
using all the force of her rude but impressive eloquence
to get her daughter to adopt the means that were in her
power for the amelioration of a grief which might render
her childless.

" I am gettin auld, Effie," she said, " an' you are the
only ane I can look to for administerin to yer faither an' to
me that comfort we hae a richt to expect at the hands o' a
dochter wha never yet was deficient in her duty. Oar
poverty, which winna be made ony less severe, as ye may
weel ken, by the oncome o' years, will mak yer attention
to us mair necessary ; an' it may even be — God meise the
means ! — that your weak hands may yet be required to work
for the support o' yer auld parents. I hae lang intended
to speak to you in this way, and it was only pity for my
puir heart-broken Effie that put me aff frae day to day, in
the expectation that either some news wad come frae Lewie,
or that ye wad get consolation frae anither an' a higher
source, to support ye for trials ye may yet hae to bear
up against, for the sake o' them that brocht ye into
the world. A' ither means hae been tried to get ye to
determine to live, an' no lay yersel doun to dee, an' they
havin failed, what can I do but try the last remedy in my
pooer — to speak, as I hae noo dune, to yer guid sense,
an' lay afore ye the duties o' a dutifu bairn, which are far
aboon the thochts o' a disappointed love. Promise, now,
my bonny Effie, that ye will try to gie up yer mournin,
for the sake o' parents whase love for ye is nae less than
Lewie Campbell's."

As Betty finished her impressive admonition to Effie,
who acknowledged its force, and inwardly determined on
complying with the request of her mother, an unusual
noise at the door of the cottage startled her anxious ear.
It seemed that a number of people were approaching the
cottage, and the groans of one in deep distress and pain
were mixed with the low talk of the crowd, who, from those
inexpressible indications which the ear can catch and
analyze ere the mind is conscious of the operation, seemed
already to sympathise with one to whom they were bearing
a grief. Roused by that anticipative fear of evil which all
unfortunate people feel, Betty ran to the door, followed by
her daughter, and opened it — to let in the mangled body of
her husband ; who, in felling an oak, on the property of
Burnbank, had fallen under the weight of the tree, and got
his leg broken, and one of his arms dislocated at the shoulder
joint. He was conveyed, by the kind neighbours, to a bed ;
and, by the time they got him undressed, for the purpose of
his wounds being submitted to the curative process of the

230

TALES OF THE 130HDE11S.

doctor, that individual arrived, and proceeded to perform
the painful operation of setting the broken bones The full
effect of this misfortune to Effie and her mother was for a
time suspended, by the call made upon them to relieve the
sufferings of the father end husband ; and it was not till
the bustle ceased, and the neighbours (excepting two women,
whose services, in addition to those of the wife and
daughter, might still be required) went away, that they
felt the full force of the gigantic evil that had befallen
them, the consequences of which might extend through
the remaining years of their existence.

A period of no less than eighteen months passed away,
and David Mearns was still unable to do more than, with
assistance, to rise from his bed, and sit, during a part of
the day, by the fire, or at the window. During the whole
of this time, he had been tended by his daughter with
assiduous care. Her filial sympathies, called into active
operation by the sorrows of her parent, filled up the void
that had been made in her heart by the departure of her
lover ; and a new source of grief effected (however para-
doxical it may seem) a change in the morbid melancholy
to which she had been enslaved, which, although not for
mental health or ease, was so much in favour of exertion
and remedial exercise, that she came to present the appear-
ance of one inclined to endeavour to sustain her sorrow,
rather than resign herself to the fatal power of an irre-
mediable wo. Among the visiters who took an interest in a
family reduced by one stroke to want and all its attendant
evils, Laird Cherry trees evinced the strongest concern for
the fate of his friend ; and, by a timeous contribution of
necessary assistance, ameliorated, in so far as man could,
the unhappy condition of virtue under the load of misery.
The many visits of the good old laird, and the long periods
of time he passed by the bedside of the patient, enabled him
to see and appreciate the devoted attention of Eflie to her
parent ; and often, as she flew at the slightest indication of
a wish for something to assuage pain, or remove the uneasi-
ness produced by the long confinement, he would stop the
current of his narrative, and fix his eyes on the kind maiden,
so long as her tender office engaged her attention and feel-
ings. These long looks, not unaccompanied at times with
a deep sigh, were attributed, as they well might, to admir-
ation and approbation of so much filial affection and devoted-
ness exercised towards one whom the old laird respected
above all his friends.

The visits of Laird Cherrytrees were at first twice or
thrice a-week. His infirm body, already begun to exhibit
the effects of old age, prevented him from walking ; and
such was the anxiety he felt for the unhappy patient, that
he mounted his old pony, Donald, nearly as frail as his
master, to enable him to administer consolation so much
required. He came always at the same hour ; Effie, who
expected him, was often at the door, ready to receive him ;
and, while she held old Donald's head till he dismounted,
welcomed her father's friend with so much sincerity and
pleasure that if she had failed in her hostlership he would
have felt a disappointment he would not have liked to
express. Even when at a distance from the cottage, he
strained his eyes to endeavour to catch a glimpse of the
faithful attendant ; and, if he did not see her, the rein of
Donald was relaxed, and he was allowed to saunter along
at his own pleasure, or even to eat grass by the road -side,
(a luxury he delighted in from his having once belonged to
a cadger,) so as to give Effie time to get to her post.

The three days of the week on which Laird Cherrytiees
was in the habit of visiting David Mearns, were Monday,
Thursday, and Saturday ; and he seldom came without
bringing something to the poor family — either some money
for old Betty ; some preserves, prepared by Lucy, for the
invalid ; or a book, or a flower from Burnbank garden, for
Effie. When his conversation with David was finished —

and every day it seemed to get shorter and shorter, though
there seemed no lack of either subjects or ideas — he com-
menced to talk with Effie, chiefly on the nature and con-
tents of the books he brought her to read ; and nothing
seemed to delight him more than to sit in the large arm-
chair by David's bedside, and hear Effie discoursing, ex
cathedra, (on a three -footed stool at the foot of the bed,
opposite to the Laird's chair,) with her characteristic sim-
plicity and good sense, on the subjects he himself had
suggested. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to appeal
well pleased in presence of the man who Avas supporting
her family, her train of thoughts was often broken in upon
by the recollections of Lewis Campbell, and she would sit
for an hour at a time, with the eyes of the Laird fixed on
her melancholy face, as if he had been all that time in mute
cogitation, suggesting some remedy for her sorrow. His
ideas and feelings seemed to be operated upon by the same
power that ruled the mind of the maiden ; for his face
followed, in its changing expressions, the mutations of her
countenance. Her melancholy seemed to be communicated
by a glance of her watery eye, as the thought of Lewis
entered her mind ; and when she recovered from her gloomy
reverie, a corresponding indication of relief lighted up the
grey twinkling orbs of the old Laird. This custom of "glowr-
in," for whole hours at a time, on the face of the sensitive
girl, at first painful to her, became a matter of indifference j
and the position and attitudes of the three individuals —
Betty being generally engaged about the house — undergo-
ing, while the Laird was present, no change, came to assume
something like the natural properties of the parties, as if
they had been fixtures, or lay figures for the study of a
painter.

Every time the Laird came to the cottage, he extended
the period of his stay, and, latterly, he did not stir till a
servant from Burnbank, sent by Lucy, came to take him
home. It seemed as if he could not get enough of " glowr-
in ;" for, latterly, all his occupation, which at first consisted
of rational conversation, merged in that mute eloquence of
the eye, or rather in that inebriation of the orb, " drinking
of light," which lovers of sights, especially female counten-
ances, are so fond of. The visits had been so regular, not
a day being ever missed, that, as Effie held the stirrup till he
mounted Donald, during all which time the process of
" glowrin" went on as regularly as at the bedside of David,
she never thought of asking, and he never thought of
stating, when he would call again. Time had stamped the
act of calling with the impress of an unchangeable custom.
The caseless clock of David's cottage was not more regular ;
the only change being that already observed — that the time
of the Laird's stay gradually and gradually lengthened.

The homage paid by Effie to Laird Cherrytrees was, as
may easily be conceived, the respect, attention, and kind-
ness of an open-hearted girl, filled with gratitude to the
preserver of the lives of her and her parents. Every even-
ing she offered up, at her bedside, prayers for the pre-
servation and happiness of the man but for whose kind-
ness starvation might have overtaken the helpless invalid,
and not much less helpless wife and daughter. In their
prayers the " amen" of David and his wife was the most
heartfelt expression of love and gratitude that ever came from
the lips of mortal. This feeling, however, did not prevent
David Mearns and Betty from sometimes indulging, in the
absence of Effie, (in all likelihood giving freedom to her
tears, as she sat in some favourite retreat of her absent
lover,) in some remarks on the extraordinary conduct of
Laird Cherrytrees. They soon saw- through the secret, and
resolved upon drawing him out ; for which purpose, Effie
was to be called away on the occasion of the next visit.

The Laird came as he used to do, took his seat, and
resumed his gazing. Effie pleased him exceedingly, by an
account she gave him of the last book he brought to her.-

TALES OP THE BORDERS.

237

and, throwing himself back in the arm-chair, he seemed, for
a time, wrapped in meditation. Effie obeyed, in the mean-
time, her mother's request, to come for a few minutes to
the green to assist her in her work ; and, when the Laird
again applied his eyes to their accustomed vocation, he was
surprised, but not (for once) displeased, at her disappear-
ance. A great struggle now commenced between some
wish and a restraint. He looked round the cottage, and
then turned his eyes on David; acts which he repeated several
times. Incipient syllables of words half formed, died away
in his struggling throat. He moved restlessly in the large
chair, and twirled his silver-headed cane in his hand. He
even rose, went to the door, looked out, came back again,
and took his seat without saying a word. Holding away
his face from David, he at last made out a few words,
uttered with great difficulty.

" She's a fine lassie, Effie," he said.

" A bonnier an' a better never was brocht up in
Bramblehaugh, savin yer ain Lucy," replied David.

" Hoo auld is she noo ?" said the Laird, still holding
away his face.

" She will be nineteen come the time," replied David.

" It's a pity she's sae young," rejoined the Laird, with a
great struggle, and making a noise with his cane, as if he
had repented of his words and wished to drown them before
they reached the ears of David.

" I dinna think sae, beggin yer Honour's pardon," replied
David. " We need her assistance in this trial ; an' I'm just
thinkin o' some way she micht use her hands — an' she's
willing aneugh puir cratur — for oor assistance."

" Are ye no pleased wi' my assistance?" said the Laird,
displeased at something in David's reply.

" Yer Honour has saved oor lives," replied David,
feelingly, " an' it wad only be because we are ashamed o'
yer guidness that we wad wish oor dochter to tak a part
o' that burden aff ane wha is under nae obligation to serve
us."

" If I hae been yer freend, ye hae been mine," said the
Laird. " I hae got guid advices frae ye ; an', even noo, I
hae something to ask ye concernin mysel, that nae ither
man i' the haugh could sae weel answer."

" What is that, yer Honour?" said David.

" What do ye think, David Mearns, I should do," said
the Laird, moving about in the chair in evident perplexity,
" if my dochter Lucy were to tak a husband an' leave Burn-
bank ? I carena aboot fa'in into the hands o' Jenny Muckle-
wham, wha, for this some time past, has neither. cleaned my
buckles nor brushed my coat as I wad wish. She says I'm
mair fashions ; but that's a mere excuse."

" I hae seen aulder men marry again," said David,
thinking he would please the Laird, by giving him such an
answer as he was clearly fishing for.

"Aulder men, David, man !" replied the Laird, looking
down at his person, and adjusting his wig. " Did I ask ye
anything aboot my age ? I wanted merely your advice, what
I should do in certain circumstances, an' ye gie me a com-
parison for an answer. — Do ye think I should marry ?"

" If yer Honour has ony wish in that way, 1 think ye
should," said David.

" I never yet did wrang in following your advice, David
Mearns," said the Laird. — " She's a fine lassie, Effie."

ic Ou, ay," responded David, at a loss what more to say.

" Very fine," again said the Laird, turning his face par-
tially from the window, so as the tail of his eye reached
David's face, and waiting for something more.

David could, however, say nothing. The very circumstance
of the Laird's wishing him to say something pertinent to the
purpose already so broadly hinted at, prevented him from
touching so delicate a subject ; and, notwithstanding of
another application of the tail of the Laird's eye, he was
silent.

" Ye hae gien me ae advice, David," said the Laird, in
despair of getting anything more out of David without a
question : " could ye no tell me ivha I should marry, man ?"
And having achieved this announcement, he rose and walked
to the window.

" That's owre delicate a subject for me to gie an advice

, yer Honour," replied David. " The doo laes aside
ninety-nine guid straes, an' taks the hundredth, though a
crooked ane, for its nest. Ye maun judge for yersel."

" What say ye to yer ain Effie, then ?" said the Laird,
relieved at last from a dreadful burden.

"If yer Honour likes the lassie, an' she'll tak yer
Honour, I can hae nae objections," replied David.

The Laird, who seemed twenty years younger after this
declaration, took David by the hand, and shook it till the
pain of his dislocated arm almost made him cry.

" Will ye speak to her aboot it, David ?" said he, still
holding his hand. " The best farm o' Burnbank will be
your reward. Plead for me, David, my best friend. Tell
Betty aboot it, and get her to use a mother's pooer. If I
can trust my een, Effie doesna dislike me. If a' gaes weel,
ye may hae Ravelrigg, or Braidacre, or Muirfield — onything
that's in my pooer to gie, David." And the old lover,
exhausted by the struggle and excitement he had suffered,
sank back into the chair.

" I will do my best," replied David. And the old Laird
sighed, and absolutely groaned with pure, unmixed satisfac-
tion.

At the end of this scene, Effie and her mother came in.
The damsel took her old seat on the three-footed stool at
the foot of the bed ; the eyes of the Laird sought again her
face, where he thought they had a better right now to rest.
No more was spoken ; enough for a day had been said and
done ; and, with a parting look to David, to keep him in
remembrance of his promise, and a purse of money slipped
into the hand of Betty, as a solvent of any obstacle that
might exist in her mind, the lover went to the door to
receive Donald from the soft hands of Effie, who, as was
her custom, had gone out before him, to lead the old cadger
to the door, and hold the bridle till he with an effort
got into the saddle. The only difference Effie could
observe in his departure this day, was a kind of mock-
gallant wave of the hand, as he, with more than usual
spirit, struck his spurless heels into Donald's sides, and
tried to rise in the saddle, in response to the hobble of the
old Highlander.

The Laird had been scarcely out of the house, when
David had a communing with his wife, in absence of Effie,
on the " extraordinary intimation made by the old lover.
Betty was agreeable to the match ; but the tear came into
her eye as she thought of the sacrifice poor Effie was to be
called upon to make. Neither of them could answer for
the consent of Effie, whose melancholy, though somewhat
ameliorated, was little diminished, and whose recollections
of Lewis Campbell were as vivid as they were on the day
of his departure. When she returned from one of her
solitary rambles, which fed her passion and increased her
grief, she was delicately told of the intentions of Laird
Cherrytrees. The announcement of the extraordinary in-
telligence produced an effect which neither her father
nor mother could have anticipated. A quick operation
of her mind placed before her all the affectionate acts
of attention she had for years been in the habit of applying
to the old friend of her father, and the preserver of their
lives. Gratitude, operating in one of the most grateful
hearts that ever beat in the bosom of mortal, had pro-
duced in her an exuberant kindness, a devotedness of a
species of affection due by a child to its godfather, a play-
ful freedom of the confidence of one who relied on the
disparity of years for a license from even the suspicion of a
possibility of any other relation existing between them,

238

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

that now came back upon her, loaded with self-reproach
and shame, and attributing to her misconstrued attentions
the extraordinary passion that had taken hold of the heart
of the old Laird. She was totally unable to make any
reply to her parents. The image of Lewis Campbell, never
absent from her mind, assumed a new form, and swam in
the tears which flowed from her eyes. The natural contrast
between age and youth, love and gratitude, assumed its
legitimate strength. The first feeling of her mind was, that
she would suffer the death that had for a time been
impending over her, and whose finger was already on her
breaking heart, rather than comply with the wishes of her
father and mother. They saw the struggle that was in her
mind, and abstained from pressing what they had suggested.
They did not ask her even to give her sentiments ; but the
silent tears that stole down her cheek and dropped in her
lap from her drooping head, required no spoken commentary
to tell them the extent of her grief, and the resolution at
least of a heart that might entirely break, as it appeared to
be breaking, but never could forget.

There was little sleep for the eyes of Effie on the suc-
ceeding night. Her sobs reached the ears of her parents,
who, unable to yield her consolation, were obliged to leave
her to wrestle with her grief; sending up a silent prayer
to the Author of all good dispensations, that He might
assuage the sorrow of one who had already, with exemplary
patience, submitted to the rod of affliction. The sacredness
of her feelings was too well appreciated by her parents to
admit of any offer of counsel, where deep-seated affection,
the work of mysterious instinct, stood in solemn derision of
the vulgar ideas of this world's expediency. The struggle in
her mind arose from the strength of her love, and the power
of her filial devotion. No part of the attendant circum-
stances or probable consequences of her decision escaped
her mind. She knew that she never could be happy as the
wife of any other individual, even of suitable age, than
Lewis Campbell. But this concerned only herself; and she
knew, and trembled as she thought, that the result of her
decision might be the destitution, the want, perhaps the
death of her parents : their all depended on the breath of
the man whom she, by the sign of her finger, might change
from a friend to a foe ; and she might thereby become the
destroyer of those who gave her being.

The morning came, but brought neither sleep nor relief
to the unhappy maiden. Her parents seemed inclined
not to advert to the subject that day, but to let her
struggle on with her own thoughts. The hour of tho
Laird's visit approached, and he was already on the road
for the home of his beloved, whom his ardent fancy pictured
standing smiling at the door, ready as usual to receive him
and lead him into the house. Donald — who knew a reverie
in his master better than he did himself, and did not fail
io take advantage of it — ambled on with diminished speed.
The Laird approached the cottage. No Effie was there.
His bright visions took flight, and were succeeded by a
cold shiver, the precursor of a gloomy train of ideas, which
pictured a refusal and all its attendant horrors. He drew up
the head of Donald, and even invited him to partake of the
long grass which grew by the way-side. He counted the
moments as Donald devoured the food ; and, from time to
time, lifted his eyes, to see if Effie was yet at the cottage
door. She was not to be seen — and she had not been absent
before for many months. His mind was unprepared for a
refusal ; the ground-swell of his previous excited fancy dis-
tracted him amidst the dead stillness of despair. He
looked again, and for the last time that day. Effie was not
yet there. He turned the head of the delighted, and no
doubt astonished Donald, and quietly sought again the
house of Burnbank.

The same procedure was gont> through on the suc-
ceeding day. Laird Cherrytrees again proceeded to the

cottage of David Mcarns ; and, as he sauntered along, lie
thought it impossible that Effie should again be absent from
her post. He was too good a man, and too conceited a
lover, as all old lovers are, to allow his mind to dwell on
the probable operation of necessity and the fear of injuring
her father's patron, on the mind of the daughter ; and yet
a lurking, rebellious idea suggested that he would rather
see Effie at the door, impelled by that cause, than absent
altogether. His hopes again beat high, and Donald was
pricked on to the goal of his wishes with an asperity he did
not relish so well as a reverie. The spot was attained.
Effie was still absent. Donald was again remitted to the
long grass, and all the resources of a lover's mind were
called up, to enable him to face the evil that awaited him.
But all was in vain — he found it impossible to proceed.

" I am rejected," he muttered to himself, with a sigh ;
" a cottager's dochter has refused the Laird o' Burnbank ;
but her cauldness an' cruelty mak me like her the mair.
Effie Mearns, Effie Mearns ! hoo little do ye ken what com-
motion ye hae produced in this puir burstin heart ! But,
though ye winna hae me, I winna desert yer faither. Hame,
Donald, to Burnbank." And, as he pulled up the bridle with
his left hand, he wiped away the tears that had collected
in his eyes, and, casting many a look back to the cottage,
cantered slowly home.

These proceedings of the Laird had been noticed by Bettj
Mearns, from the Avindow of the cottage, and she and
David were at no loss to guess the cause of them. They
knew his timid, sensitive disposition, and truly attributed
his return to his not seeing Effie at the door, waiting for
him as usual. Apprehensions now seized the good mother
that the Laird might withdraw his attentions and assistance
from the family, the result of which would be nothing but
misery and ruin ; as David's fractured limbs were yet far
from being healed, and a long period must yet pass before
he could earn a penny to keep in their lives. These fears
were increased by a third and a fourth day having passed
without a visit from the Laird, who had, notwithstanding,
been seen reconnoitering as usual at a distance from the
cottage. Effie herself saw how matters stood, and learned,
from the looks of her father and mother, sentiments they
seemed unwilling to declare. Her mind was still convulsed
with the struggle of the antagonist duties, wishes, emotions,
and fears, that rose in her mind ; arid the apprehensions of
her parents, which she considered well-founded, added to
her sorrow an additional source of anguish.

" This house," said David, at last overcome by his feel-
ings, " has become mair like an hospital that has lost its
mortification, than an honest man's cottage. Effie sits
greetin an sabbin the hail day, an' you, Betty, look forward
to starvation, wi' the gruesome face o' despair. I am
unhappy mysel, besides being an invalid. What is this to
end in ? What are we to do ? Hoo are we to live withoot
meat, noo that Burnbank, guid man, has deserted us?"

" There has come naething frae Burnbank for five days,"
replied Betty ; "• an' the siller I got frae the guid auld man,
the last time he was here, I payed awa i' the village for
necessaries I had taen on afore we got that help. Oor
girnel winna haud oot lang against three mous ; an', if Laird
Cherrytrees bides awa muckle langer, I see naething for it
but to beg."

The tear started to the eye of David. He looked at
Effie. She wept, and sobbed, and covered her face with
her hands.

" Effie, woman," said David, " a' this micht hae been
averted if ye had just gane to the door an' welcomed the
auld Laird, as ye were wont. He's a blate man, though a
guid carl ; an' he has, nae doot, thocht he was unwelcome
when yer auld practice o' waitin for him was gien up."

" I tauld her that, David," said Betty, " and pressed her
to gae ot the door, though it was only to gie the blate Laird

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

239

a glimpse o' her, whilk was a' he wanted to bring him in ;
but she only sabbed the mair. Unhappy hour she first
saw that callunt, wha may noo be dead or married for
ought she kens ! — an' yet for his sake maun a hail family
dree the dale o' this day's misery. Effie, woman, can ye no
forget ane wha hasna thocht ye worth the trouble o'
tellin ye, by ae scrape o' his pen, Avhether he be i' the land
o' the livin ?"

A sob Avas the only reply Erne could make to this
appeal.

" I hae tauld Effie," said David, " what wad save us frae
fhe ruin an' starvation that stare us i' the face ; but my
•irind's made up to suffer to the end, though I should lie
here wi' my broken banes, and dree the pains o' hunger,
rather than force my dochter to marry a man against her
ftin choice. But, 0 Effie, woman, wad ye see yer puir
faither, broken as he is in baith mind an' body, lie starvin
here in his bed, wi' nae maiifpooer to earn a bite o' bread than
the unspeaned bairn, and no mak a sacrifice to save him ?"

" Ay, faither," replied Effie, " I wad dee to save ye."

"'But deein winna save either him or me," said Betty.
" Naething Avill hae that effect but yer agreein to be the
leddy o' the bratv hoose an' braid acres o' Burnbank. "Wae's
me ! what a difference between that condition, wi' servants
at yer nod, an' a' the comforts an' luxuries o' life at yei
command, an', abune a', the pooer o' makin happy yer
auld faither and mother, an' this awfu prospect o' dreein the
very warst-an' last o' a' the evils o' life — want an' auld age —
ill-matched pair ! Effie, woman, my bonny bairn, hae ye
nae love in yer heart, but for Lewie Campbell ? Wad ye,
for his sake, see a' this misfortune fa' on the heads o' yer
parents, whom, by the laws o' God an' man, ye are bound to
honour, serve, and obey ?"

It was easier for Effie to say she would die to save her
parents, than that she would comply with the wish of her
mother ; but the feeling appeal of her parent increased her
agony, which induced another paroxysm of hysterical sobs,
the only answer she could yet make to her mother.

" Effie doesna care for either you or me, Betty," said
David, " or she wad hae little hesitation aboot marryin a
guid, fresh, clean, rich, auld man, to save her faither an'
mother frae poverty an' starvation. I see nae great sacrifice
i' the matter. Her young heart mayna rejoice i' the
pleasures o' a daft love, but her guid sense will be gratified
by a feelin o' duty far aboon the vain, frawart freits o' a
silly, giddy, youthfu passion. Let her refuse Laird Cherry-
trees, an' when Lewie Campbell comes hame, the owre-
come bread o' the funeral o' her faither may grace a waddin
bought wi' the price o' his life."

" Dinna speak that way, faither," cried Effie, lifting up
her hands ; " I canna stand that. You said ye wadna force
me, an' ye are forcin me. Oh, my puir heart, wha or
what will support ye when grief for my parents turns me
against ye ? Faither, faither, when I am dead, Laird Cherry-
trees will be again yer freend. A little time will do't :
will ye ho wait ?"

" Hunger waits only eight days, as the sayin is," replied he,
"an' ye'll live mair than that time, I hope an' trow. I will be
dead afore ye, Effie, an' ye'll hae the consolation, as ye maybe
drap a tear on the mossy grey stane that covers the Mearnses
i' the kirkyard o' oor palish, to think, if ye shouldna like
to say, in case ye micht be heard — though thinkin an'
speakin's a' ane to God — that ' that stane was lifted ten
years suner than it micht hae been, because I liked Lewie
Campbell better than auld Laird Cherrytrees.'"

" An' it's no likely," said the mother, " that 1 wad be
there to hear Effie mak sae waefu a speech. If I binna
lyin wi' the Mearns, I'll be wi' the Cherrytrees o' Moss-
nook — nae relations o' the Burnbanks, though maybe as guid
a family. But, afore I'm mixed wi' the dust o' that auld
hoose, Effie — an' it mayna be . lang — ye may join the twa

Cherrytrees, an' let the gravcstanes o' the Mearns, as wcel
as the Mossnooks, lie yet a score years langer, withoot
bein moved. It's a pity to disturb the lang grass. Its
sough i' the nicht wind keeps the bats frae pickin the auld
banes, an' maybe it may save your mother's, if ye send her
there afore her time."

Effie's feelings could no longer withstand these appeals.
Her sobbing ceased suddenly; and, starting up from her seat,
she looked to the old clock that stood against the wall of
the cottage. She noticed that it was upon the hour of the
Laird's usual visit.

" It is twelve o'clock, faither," she said, firmly— ." this hoor
decides the fate o' Effie Mearns."

"Walking to the door, she placed herself in the position she
used to occupy when she intended to welcome her father's
friend. Now she was to welcome a husband. Laird Cherry-
trees was, as might have been expected, allowing Donald
to take his liberty of the road-side, grazing while he was
busy reconnoitering the cottage. The moment he saw the
form of Effie standing where he had for several long days
wished to see her, he pulled up Donald's bridle, with the
alacrity of youth, and, striking his sides with his unarmed
heels, made all the speed of a bridegroom to get to his
bride. The sight of the object he had gazed upon so un-
ceasingly for so long a time, and whom he had strained his
eyes in vain to see during these eventful days, operated like
a charm on the old lover. He discovered at first sight the
red, swollen eyes of Effie ; but he was too happy in thinking
he had been successful, as he had no doubt he had, to meditate
on the struggle which produced his bliss. Having taken a
long draught of the fountain of his hopes and happiness,
and feasted his eyes on the face of the maiden, who at-
tempted to smile through her tears, which he did sitting
on his horse, and, without speaking a word — for, loquacious
in politics or rural economy, he was mute in love — he dis-
mounted, AA'hile Effie, as usual, held the reins. He lost no
time in getting into his chair, falling back into it like a
breathless traveller who has at last attained the end of his
journey. David and Betty, who construed Effie's conduct
into a consent, took an early opportunity, while she was
still at the door, of letting the happy Laird know that their
daughter, as they conceived, was inclined to the match.
The Laird received the intelligence as if it had been too
much for mortal to bear. He was at first beyond the
vulgar habit of speech. He sighed, turned his eyes in their
sockets, groaned, and wrung his hands. On recovering
himself, he exclaimed —

" Whar is she, Betty ? Let me see the dear creature.
David, ye'll hae Ravelrig ; it's the best o' them a'. Whan
is't to be, Betty? Ye maun fix the day; an' ye maun
brak the thing to Lucy, and to Jenny Mucklewham ; for I
hae nae pooer. Let me see her — let me see the sweef
creature this instant."

Effie, at the request of her mother, came in and resumed
her seat on the three-footed stool. Her eyes were still
swollen, and she looked sorrowfully at her father. The
Laird fixed his eyes on her ; but his loquacity was gone.
He had not a word to say ; but his " glowriii" was in some
degree changed, being accompanied by a soft smile of self-
complacency and contentment, and freed from the nervous
irritability with which he used to solicit with, his eyes a
look from the object of his affections. His visit this day
was shorter than it used to be. Next day, Betty was to
visit Burnbank, to arrange for the marriage.

Meanwhile, the unfortunate girl resigned herself as a
self-sacrifice into the hands of her mother. Bound with
the silken bands of filial affection, she renounced all desire
of exercising her own free-will, or indulging in those feelings
of the female heart which are deemed so strong as to de-
mand the sacrifice often of all other earthly considerations.
The fate of Iphiginia has occupied the pens and tongues of

240

TALES OF THE BOltDERS.

pitying mortals for thousands of years. A lovely woma
sacrificed for a fair wind, doomed to have the blood tha
mantled in the blushing cheeks of beauty sprinkled on th
altar of a false religion, is a spectacle which the imagination
cannot contemplate without a participation of the stronge
sympathies of the heart ; yet there are, in the common
every-day world we now live in, many a scene in the act o
being performed, where, though there is no bloodshed an
no smoking altar exhibited, the sacrifice is not less than
that of the Grecian victim. Our blessed, holy altar o
matrimony is often, by the wayward feelings of man — fo
we here say nothing of vice or corrupt conduct — made mon
cruel than those of Moloch and Chiun. There is many a
bloodless Iphiginia in those days, whose sufferings are uu
known and unsung, because confined to the heart tha
broke over them and concealed them in death. The young
tender, and devoted female, who, for the love she bears to
her parents, consents to intermarry with rich age, to em
brace dry bones, to extend her sympathies to churlishness
caprice, and ill-nature, or, what is worse, to the asthmati
giggle of a superannuated love, while all the while her
heart, cheated of its tribute and swelling with indignation
requires to be watched by her with vigilance and firmness
the cruelty of which she herself feels — presents a form of self-
sacrifice possessing claims on the pity of mankind beyonc
those of the boasted self-immolation of ancient devotees.

The silence and dejection of our bride were construed, by
her parents, into that seemly and becoming sedateness
which sensible young women think it proper to assume on
the eve of so important a change in their condition as
marriage ; while the happy bridegroom had come to that
time of life when he is pleased with submission, though it
be expressed through tears. No chemical menstruum hai
so much power in the dissolution of the hardest metals ai
the self-complacency of an old lover has in construing, ac-
cording to his wishes, the actions, words, or looks of the
young woman who is destined to be his bride. Silence and
tears are expressive of happiness as well as of grief; and, so
long as the desire of the ancient philosopher is uncomplied
with by the gods, and there is no window to the heart, that
organ in the young victim may break while the sexagenarian
bridegroom is enjoying the imputed silent, restrained hap-
piness of the object of his ill-timed affection.

The sadness and melancholy of the apparently- resigned
Effie Mearns had no effect on the noise and show of the
preparations for her marriage with her old lover. The
marriages of old men are well known to be celebrated
with higher bugle notes from the trumpet of fame than any
others. A sumptuous dinner was to be given to the neigh-
bouring lairds, and the cotters were to be fed and regaled
on the green opposite to the mansion. Dancing and music
were to add their charms to the gay scene ; and it was
even alleged that the light of a bonfire would lend its pecu-
liar aid, in raising the joy of the guests, predisposed to
hilarity by plenteous potations, to the proper height suited
to the conquest of the old bridegroom over, at once, a young
woman and old Time.

For days previous to the eventful one, Effie Mearns was
not heard to open her lips. She looked on all the gay pre-
parations for her marriage as if they had been the mournful
acts of the undertaker employed in laying the silver trim-
ming on the coffin lid of a lover. The bedside of her sick pa-
rent, who was still unable to rise, was the place where she
sat " shrouded in silence." She heard the conversations of
her father and mother about the progress of the preparations,
without exhibiting so much interest as to shew that she
understood them. Misgivings crossed the minds of the old
couple, and brought tears to their eyes, as they contem-
plated the animated corpse that sat there, waiting the nod
of the master of ceremonies, and ready to perform the part
assigned to it in the forthcoming orgies of mournful joy ;

but they had gone too far to recede, and it was even a sub.
ject of satisfaction to them that the period of the celebration
was so near, for otherwise they might have had reason to
fear that their daughter would not have survived the inter-
mediate time. When the bridegroom called, his ears were
alarmed by the voices of the parents, who saw the necessity
of endeavouring to hide the condition of their daughter ;
and he was satisfied, if he got, free and unrestrained, " a
feast of the eyes." His love was still expressed by silent
gazing ; for it was too deep in his old heart for either words
or tears ; if, indeed, there was moisture enough in the seat
of his affection for the suppliance of the softest expression
of the soft passion.

The eventful day arrived. The marriage was to take
place in the cottage, where David Mearns still lay con-
fined to bed. The sick man wore a marriage favour
attached to the breast of his shirt ! — for Laird Cherrytrces
would be contented with no less a demonstration of his
participation in his unparalleled happiness. The still
silent bride submitted passively to all the acts of her nimblt
dressers, whose laugh seemed to strike her ears like fune-
ral bells ; yet she tried — poor victim ! — to smile, though
the clouded beam came through a tear which, by its stead-
fastness, seemed to belong to the orb. The bridegroom came
at the very instant when he ought to have come — the hand
of the clock not having had time to leave the mark of
notation. He Avas dressed in the style of his earliest days
with cocked hat, laced coat, and a sky-blue vest, embroid-
ered in the richest manner ; while a new wig, ordered from
the metropolis, imparted to him the freshness of youth.
His cheek was flushed with the blood which joy had forced,
for a moment, from where it was more needed, at the drying
fountain of life ; and his eye spoke a happiness which his
parched tongue could not have achieved, without causing
shame even to himself. Everything was new, spruce, perk-
ing, self-complacent. The clergyman next came, and all
was prepared.

Throughout all this time and all these preparations, not
the slightest change had been observed on the bride. After
she was dressed, she took her seat again, silently by the side
of her father's sickbed, where she sat like a statue. The
ceremony was now to commence, and she stood up, when
required by the clergyman, as if she obeyed the command
of an executioner. It was noticed that she seemed to in-
cline to be as near as possible to her father's bed ; and her
unwillingness or inability to come forward forced the clergy-
man and the bridegroom some paces from the situation they
at first held. The ceremony proceeded till it came to that
part where the consent of the parties is asked. The happy
bridegroom pronounced his response, quick, sharp, and with
an air of conceit, which brought a smile to the faces of the
parties present. There was now a pause for the consent of
the bride. All eyes were fixed on her death-like face. A
severe struggle was going on in her bosom ; yet her counte-
nance was unmoved, and no one conjectured that she
suffered more than sensitive females often do in her situ-
ation. The clergyman repeated his question. There was
still a pause — the eyes of all were riveted on her. " I canna,
I canna J" at last she exclaimed, in a voice of agony, and fell
sack on the bed — a corpse !

Six months after the death of Effie Mearns, Lucy Cherry-

rees was married, without faintor swoon, to Lewis Campbell,

who returned home, in spite of his reported death. The union

was against the consent of the Laird, who soon died of either

a broken heart or old age — no doctor could have told which.

WILSON'S

, STralrtttonavg, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE GIPSY LOVER.

" MARY, my dear," said Mrs Blair, approaching her daugh-
ter's bedside early one morning, (it was the morning of
the fair of Bucklyvie in Stirlingshire, formerly a very
important one,) " ye maun get up, and gang \vi' yer brother
to the fair the day. He's to sell the brown pony ; and ye
maun bring hame the siller, as he's gaun to Stirling after
the fair, and winna be hame for a day or twa, and there's a
bill to pay the morn."

Delighted with the mission, Mary instantly arose and
dressed herself ; and, when she had done so, broad Scotland
could not have produced a more lovely or more captivating
face and figure. Mary Blair was about nineteen years of age,
and, though not tall of stature, her form was perfect in its
symmetry, while her countenance beamed with gentleness
and love. Many were the suitors who sought to win her
heart ; but " there was ane, a secret ane," who stood between
them and her affections, and rendered all their efforts fruit-
less. But none knew who this one was ; nor did any
knoAv even that her love was already disposed of. She
durst not avow it ; for the favoured lover was of a race
with any of the individuals of which it would have been
reckoned foul disgrace to have held communion of any
kind. This was not her opinion ; but it was the opinion
of the world, and she was so far compelled to bow to it as
to keep close locked up in her heart the secret of her
love.

Mary's mother, who was a widow, rented a small farm
in Stirlingshire, and was in comparatively easy circum-
stances. She held the land on reasonable terms ; and the
judicious management of her only son, a fine young man of
about five-and-twenty, enabled her to make the most of it,
and to live, if not in affluence, at least in plenty.

On the occasion with which our story opens, Mary was
mounted on the pony which it was intended should be
sold ; and, accompanied by her brother, who walked by her
side, they set out for Bucklyvie at a suitable hour in the
morning. The young maiden, who had never been at a
fair before, was in high spirits at the prospect of being
gratified by the sight of such a scene ; every noAV and then
playfully urging on her pony, in order to put her brother
to his speed, and to laugh at his efforts to keep pace with
her. This emulation soon brought them to their destination.
On arriving at the scene of the fair, the unsophisticated
girl was delighted with the joyous bustle and confusion
which it exhibited. The shows, the music, the tents — every-
thing pleased her, because everything was new to her;
but, above all, was she pleased and flattered by the atten-
tion shewn her by the numerous acquaintances whom she
met. These she encountered at every turn ; and, being a
universal favourite, every one insisted on presenting her
with a fairing, until she was literally loaded with gifts of
various kinds. Having remained in the crowd all the fore-
noon, and having seen all that was worth seeing, Mary
was conducted by her brother to the house of a friend,
where he left her until he should dispose of the pony,
and return with the proceeds.

It was some time before he came back ; and, when he did,
135. VOL. III.

it was to say that he had sold the animal, but would not
receive the price till towards the afternoon ; and that his
sister must, of necessity, wait till then. Mary was alarmed
by the delay ; for it would thus be dark before she could
reach home, and her own fears, and her mother's last
injunctions, warned her to be home with daylight. She
mentioned her uneasiness on this subject to her brother.

" But there's no help for it, Mary," was his reply ; " and
besides, you have nothing to fear. Duncan M'Donald will
see you safely home."

On this proposal, Mary made no remark. To the escort
of M'Donald she made no objection to her brother, whom
she knew to entertain a very different opinion of him from
what she did. He was one of her numerous lovers, and,
being in good circumstances, his addresses were favoured
by her brother. But Mary herself — over and above the
reason already assigned for her rejecting the suits of hei
numerous wooers, and of M'Donald amongst the rest — had
an invincible aversion to him, on account of his coarse
manners, and fierce, irascible temper ; but her gentleness
rendering her unwilling to have any difference with her
brother on this subject, she made no objection to his pro-
posal of M'Donald accompanying her.

In the course of the evening, Mary's brother again called,
and handed over to her the price of the pony, which he
had received ; telling her, at the same time, that M'Donald
would call for her at eight o'clock. It was now about
seven.

The hour appointed came, but M'Donald came not with
it. Another half hour passed away, and still he did not
appear. Mary became restlessly and miserably impatient.
Her host, who was an intimate friend of herself and her
family, perceiving her uneasiness, proposed to her to
accept the convoy of his nephew, (a young man of excellent
character, who lived in the immediate neighbourhood,) and
to wait no longer on M'Donald. With this proposal Mary
thankfully closed, as she was anxious to get home ; know-
ing that her mother would be in wretchedness till she
returned. She was, besides, by no means displeased to
escape the company of M'Donald. Her host's nephew was
accordingly sent for ; and, when he came, he, with great
good will, undertook to see her safely home. In a few
minutes after, the two set out, and had proceeded for the
distance of about a mile pr so, when they heard some one
shouting behind them ; and, turning round, they saw a man
running towards them at his utmost speed. It was
M'Donald. He was the worse of liquor — considerably so —
and in a state of furious excitement. On coming close up
to Mary and her companion, the ruffian, without saying a
word, instantly knocked the latter down with a bludgeon
which he carried. He then seized Mary rudely by the
arm, and was dragging her onwards, saying that he would
see her home; but she resisted, and, upbraiding him with the
brutal act which he had just committed, refused to proceed
with him.

"You won't go with me, then ?" he said, fiercely confront-
ing her.

"No, Duncan, I will not," replied Mary; "you have
done a cruel and unmanly thing, and I will have uo more
of your company."

242

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

<c So be it," said M'Donald, turning on his heel ; " but,

Mary, if you do not dearly rue this yet" saying which,

he left her, and went off in the direction whence.he had come.

On M'Donald's departure, Mary ran towards her wounded
companion — his head being severely cut — and kneeling down
beside him, tenderly raised him, and asked if he was much
hurt. The young man, who had by this time recovered
from the stunning effects of the blow, replied that he did
not think he was, and instantly rose to his feet. At this
instant two persons came up — a man. and his wife. They
lived within a mile of Mary's mother's, were decent people,
and well known both to Mary and her companion. To
these people she related what had occurred. The whole
were then about to proceed on their way, when Mary
insisted that her companion should return home, saying
that she was now in perfectly safe hands. The young man
for some time peremptorily refused to leave her ; but, as she
as peremptorily insisted that he should — for his face was
streaming with blood, and he was otherwise greatly en-
feebled by the severity of the blow he had received — he at
length consented, and, bidding her good night, returned to
Bucklyvie. Mary and her new escort now resumed their
journey, and proceeded without any interruption until they
arrived at a place called the Tinkers' Cove, when Mary
proposed that they should there strike off the road, and take
the short cut across the burn.

To this proposal her companions would by no means
agree ; alleging it to be unsafe to pass by the bivouac of
the tinkers after nightfall— for we need hardly say that
the place took its name from being a favourite resort of the
gipsy race. We will not say that Mary did not expect
this objection on the part of her companions, far less shall
we say that she did not hope for it at any rate. Mary, in
truth, both expected and desired the refusal of her friends
to take the " short cut" with her ; and we need not say,
therefore, that her disappointment on the occasion was but
small. Did she then insist on taking this " short cut"
alone ? She did — and there was a reason for it.

Shortly after parting with her companions — for here she
did part with them — she came on the encampment of the
gipsies, as it lay directly in her route. It was situated in
a sheltered and compact hollow, of which one side was
formed by a wall of living rock. At the moment of her
approach, the tinkers' fire was blazing brightly ; and before
it were seated two persons, father and son. The former
was the principal or chief of the gang who just now
occupied the Tinkers' Cove ; none of whom, however,
were present at this moment, excepting the two spoken of.
His name was Wilson ; and, notwithstanding his profession
and mode of life, which might be supposed to have imparted
an equivocal, if not absolutely unamiable expression to his
countenance and manner, his appearance was venerable in
a high degree, and the tones of his voice at once mild and
cheerful. He was, in truth, a kind-hearted old man, and
one who would wrong no one. His son, again, was a
handsome young lad, of about three-and-twenty, and, though
born and bred a gipsy, possessed but little, either in habit
or disposition, in common with the race from which he
sprung. His manners were gentle ; his spirit generous
and elevated ; and his affections warm and sincere. Young
Wilson, in short, did not move in the sphere for which
nature had designed him. Gipsy as he was, however, he
was Mary's favoured lover. The secret is out, good reader —
George Wilson, the tinker, was the chosen, over all others,
of Mary Blair. Often had they sported together, when they
were children, on the banks of the burn — for Geordie had
come with his father and his party to the glen with the
cuckoo and the green leaf for fifteen summers ; and the
thoughts of him, when absent, was the sunshine of Mary's
soul. On her approach, on the occasion of which AVC have
been speaking, old Wilson arose, and, taking her kindly by

the hand, said, with some surprise at her appearance at
that late hour in so lonely a place —

' Whereaway noo, Mary, my dear ? What in a' the
world has brocht you this way, at this time o' nicht ?"

Mary, blushing as she spoke, informed him of her case; but
said nothing of the motive which had directed her route by
the " Tinkers' Cove." It could hardly be expected that she
should. There was one present, however, who guessed it,
as might have been conjectured by his sparkling eye and the
blush that overspread his fine expressive countenance.

" Then, Geordie," said the old man, addressing his son,
" ye'll see Mary safely owre the burn — and mind the crossin,
for it's an ugly place in the dark."

We need not say how joyfully young Wilson acceded
to his father's proposal, nor need we say with what satisfac-
tion Mary Blair concurred in it.

In a few minutes after, Mary and her gipsy lover set off,
and, in somewhere about a quarter of an hour, arrived at the
" crossin" to which the old man had so specially alluded.
And it was not without reason that he had made such
allusion, for the place was, indeed, rather a dangerous one
in the dark — and it was so at this moment. The burn, at
the particular spot alluded to, was crossed by two felled
trees, stripped of their branches and laid parallel from side
to side. The depth below was considerable — somewhere, per-
haps, about twenty feet ; and it was not the less formidable*,
probably, that it was almost dry, being covered at bottom
with large stones and fragments of rock, instead of water.

On the side of the burn opposite that on which Mary and her
lover approached it on the occasion of which we are speak-
ing, the bank rose with great abruptness to aconsiderable height,
and up this acclivity wound the steep, narrow path which
conducted to and from the rude bridge already described.
On reaching this bridge, George took Mary by the hand,
and having, with great care and tenderness, conducted her
safely to the opposite side, he bade her good night, as she had
now only to ascend the path alluded to, and to proceed a few
hundred yards afterwards, to reach her mother's house.

On parting with Mary, George recrossed the burn, and
was bounding away on his return to the bivouac of his
friends, when his progress was suddenly and fearfully
arrested by a piercing shriek, which was instantly followed
by a heavy fall, as if of some one precipitated into the hollow
of the burn. Frantic with horror — for he had no doubt
it was Mary who had fallen — he flew wildly back to the
bridge, looked down into the abyss beneath, and found his
worst fears confirmed. There, in the bottom of the ravine,
amongst the stones and rocks, lay the form of his beloved
Mary. Distracted with the horrifying sight, young Wilson
was in an instant by the side of the unfortunate girl, and in
the next her head was resting on his knee, and her face
bedewed with his tears. But Mary was insensible to the
sympathies of her lover. All consciousness had fled. Her
injuries were of the most serious kind. In his distraction
and helplessness, young Wilson called out for assistance ;
and his cries, though by mere chance, were heard. One
of his own party — a young man about his own age, and who,
moreover, happened to be provided with a lighted lantern
being at the moment in search of a stray pony — was within
hearing. He flew to the spot, and was quickly by the side
of his friend. With the assistance of this person, the unfor-
tunate girl, who was still insensible, was carried up to the
level ground above.

But how could she have fallen ?" said young Wilson's
companion, after being told by the latter that he had seen
her safely across the bridge. " It's not so very dark, and
I'm sure she knew the path well. I canna understand how
she should have lost her footing on the path."

" Nor I either," replied Wilson, with a mingled air of
wildness and thoughtfulness " Nor I either — nor I either,"
he repeated, with fierce energy. Then, gazing steadily but

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

243

silently in the face of his friend for a second — his coun-
tenance, meanwhile, expressive of some violent internal
workings — he burst out loudly with — f< I have it ! I have
it, Sandy 1" — which was the name of his associate —
" Mary's been murdered — she has been thrown down —
and that villain M'Donald has done it ! I saw him pass
about half an hour since ; and, just as I was parting with
Mary, I heard a rustling amongst the branches above
us. It must have been he. Oh, but I will have sweet
revenge ! Dearly shall the villain rue this." And, without
saying more, he bounded alongst the bridge, ascended the
path on the opposite side with the speed of a chamois, and
there, hidden amongst the brushwood, did indeed find
M'Donald, who, by the fatality which so frequently attends
the commission of crime, still lingered on the scene of hi
guilt, although he might have escaped, at Ifiast for the time,
But it is supposed that he had desired to return by the way
which he had come ; and that he was waiting for the
disappearance of young Wilson, whose position at the
bridge prevented him.

Be this as it may, in the place described the latter founc
him, when, springing on him with the ferocity of a tiger, he
accused him of having thrown Mary from the height. The
ruffian in his drunkenness admitted the fact — with some
confused qualification about a want of intention to injure her

" Unintentionally or not, you ruffian, you have murderec
her, and dearly shall you pay for it !" shouted Wilson, fiercely
and, in the next instant, lie dashed him to the earth — for
young Wilson was an uncommonly powerful man — and
seizing him by the throat, would have strangled him on the
spot. But another thought suddenly struck him. He loos-
ened his hold, and, seizing M'Donald (who was now almos
wholly incapable of resistance, from the process of suffoca
tion he had undergone) by one of his legs, he dragged him
down the path to the bridge. On arriving there with him
Wilson called out, in a voice hoarse with agitation anc
excitement, to his friend to bring him the cord which he
carried. It was to halter the pony of which the latter hac
been in quest. The cord was brought. Wilson, quick ai
thought, took a turn of it round the logs which formed the
bridge, made a running noose at the other end, forced the
latter over the head of his miserable victim, and precipi-
tating him from the bridge, exhibited him suspended from
it by the neck, and almost immediately over the identica
spot where Mary had fallen.

The whole was the work of but a very few minutes. When
the tragedy was completed, Wilson and his friend caniec
Mary home. She was still breathing, but still insensible
On the following morning she expired ; but, long ere this, tin
fire at the gipsy encampment at the Tinkers' Cove wai
quenched, their canvass tents struck, and the inhabitants o
those tents many miles away ; and neither the cuckoo no:
the green leaf ever again brought George Wilson or any o
his party back to the verdant holms of Gartnavaran.

When the morning sun arose, it shone on the lifeless bod}
of Macdonald, still suspended in the air ; and great was th
horror of the neighbourhood at the dreadful spectacle ; but
when the truth came to be known, all allowed that it was
just and well-merited retribution.

PROOF POSITIVE.

THE families of John Brown and Thomas Moffat were nea
and dear neighbours. They had been so for many year

John was a master wright in the village of in the wes

country ; and, though in but a small and homely way of busi
ness, had contrived to scrape together severalhundredpounds
He was thus a bein body, and was, moreover, a decen
honest man. Thomas, again, was an equally respectabl
sort of a person ; but he was riot so well to do in the worl

John. He had quite enough to live upon, and to live
omfortably; but nothing more — there was not a penny
er. Thomas was a weaver, and owned a four-loom shop.
We have spoken at the outset of the families of these two
vorthies, but are not quite sure if this be perfectly correct ;
or neither of them had any children, nor any other relative
iving with them. Their households consisted only of them-
elves and their better halves — namely, Mrs Brown and Mrs
VIoffat — two decent, well-doing women. These two good
matrons lived on the same friendly footing as their husbands;
-\ndthesituationsoftheirrespective houses enabled them to
cultivate this amiable understanding to the utmost, and to
enjoy each other's society to the full. The access to their
espective domiciles was by the same passage — an interior
one ; and their outer doors directly confronted each other.
Thus pleasantly and commodiously situated, there was a
constant interchange of visits between them. In truth,
each was to be found in the house of her neighbour almost
as often as in her own. It was a pleasant thing to see this
neighbourly and Christian love.

We have said that neither John Brown nor Thomas
Moffat had any children — neither had they, although both
bad been married for a good many years. To the former,
this circumstance — namely, the having no offspring — was a
source of great regret. He would have given the world to
have had a little Brown to dandle on his knee, to be the
stay of his house and the inheritor of his possessions. It
was a very natural feeling for a man who had something
to leave.

On this score, Mr Moffat had some sensations too, occasion-
ally ; but they were not altogether so strong as those of his
friend, John Brown — for he had no possessions to transmit
to his posterity ; yet, he did often wish that he had an heir,
if not to his fortunes, at least to his virtues. A little Moffat
would have been very acceptable to him. He would have
made him, he often thought, one of the best weavers in the
county. In all these longings after this particular blessing,
the worthy spouses of these worthy men fully participated.
But it was to no purpose ; it was a thing, apparently, not
destined to be. Yet they were all near the fruition — we can-
not say of their hopes, for they had long ceased to have any
hopes on the subject — but of their desires ; for, lo! unto each
was a male child born; and, singular enough, almost at the
same moment of time. But we must go a little into detail
on this particular ; it is necessary to our story ; in fact, it
would be no story at all unless we did so.

Well, then, on a certain evening, just about ten of the
clock, both Mrs Brown and Mrs Moffat severally contributed
an instalment of their debt to the state, in the shape of a
thumping boy. The same professional lady attended on
both. This worthy person being of opinion that Mrs Brown's
kitchen was the more comfortable and warm of the two — that
is, that it was more so than Mrs Moffat's — and knowing the
intimacy that subsisted between the latter and her neigh-
hour, did not hesitate to run with Mrs Moffat's infant, the in-
stant it was born, into the said kitchen, for the reason already
assigned. The little squaller of Mrs Brownhadbeenbrought
there also just a second before. Here the infants were
hurriedly consigned, by the midwife, to the care of two good
neighbours, who had volunteered their services on the
occasion, while she herself hastened to bestow the necessary
attention on their mothers.

The two worthy matrons on whom the charge was de-
volved of fitting the youngsters to make a creditable first
appearance on the stage of life, were not wanting in their
duty. They bustled about most actively — soused the little
fellows in a tub of warm water — screamed, splashed, laughed,
and scuttled away, with the greatest delight and good, will
imaginable, and finally ended by decking out the little
strangers in their first finery. But these two good women
both laughed and screamed a great deal more thai) was

244

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

necessary. There was an unnatural elevation in their
joy. They, in short, exhibited most unequivocal symptoms
of having partaken a little too largely in the hospitalities of
the occasion. They had evidently taken a superfluous cup;
but it was excusable under all the circumstances — the more
especially that it did not hinder them doing every justice
to their precious charges, in the way of tending and dress-
ing them. This latter operation they had just completed,
when in bounced the happy, the delighted John Brown.
He had been abroad when the joyous event above related
had taken place ; but had just been informed of it. In he
bounced then, we say, with a face radiant with joy, and
demanded to see his young representative.

" Here it's, Mr Brown !" shouted Loth the women ; each
at the same time thrusting on him her own particular
charge.

"AVhat!" exclaimed John in amazement — " two, o' them!
Are they baith mine ?"

" No, no — just ane o' them ; and this is it, and this is it/'
screamed again both the women, and each still pressing on
him the infant she carried. The fact was, that, being
somewhat oblivious, from ihe cause already hinted at, neither
of them knew whose child it was she had, whether Brown's
or Moffat's ; and, to increase the perplexity of the case, the
infants were as like as two peas.

" Mrs Rhind, 1 believe ye've lost yer reason," said one of
the women, addressing the other indignantly ; " do ye no
mind it was Mr Brown's wean that was gien to me ?"

" No, indeed, I do not," replied the person appealed to,
with at least equal confidence, and fully more resentment ;
' but I mind weel aneuch it was Mr Moffat's, and ye ought
to be ashamed o' yersel to say onything else. Mr Brown's
wean was gien to me, and that I'll uphaud till the day o' my
death."

We leave the reader to judge of poor Johnny Brown's
feelings during this extraordinary altercation. He will
readily believe they could not be very pleasant. It was, in
truth, a most strange and most distressing predicament ; and
Johnny felt it to be so. Entertaining, however, a pretty
sanguine hope that the midwife would be able to clear up
the mystery, Johnny — who, in the meantime, stoutly
refused to accept of either of the children — desired her to be
instantly sent for. When she came, Johnny asked her if
she would be good enough to tell him which of these
children was his ; but, before she could make any reply —

" Didna ye gie't to me ?" " Didna ye gie't to me ?"
screamingly interposed the two nurses.

" Hold your tongues, will ye," exclaimed John, angrily,
" and let me get my wean oot o' yer hands, if it be j^ossibl
Then, more calmly — " Can ye tell me, Mrs Somerville,
whilk o' thae bairns is mine ? It's a queer business this,"
he added, with a dismal expression of countenance. But
John's query, even in the case of Mrs Somerville, was one
more easily put than answered. The conflicting appeals oJ
the two assistants had sadly shaken her confidence, at no time
very strong, in her ability to decide the point ; and, to John's
great horror, she too looked a little perplexed, and candidly
confessed " that she really couldna just preceesely tell ;
that she was sae hurried at the time, and sae muckle taen
up wi' their mithers," &c. &c. In short, it appeared she
could give no information whatever on the subject ; for,
be it observed, she, too, honest woman, was a trifle confusec
with the various " wish-ye-joys" and " good-lucks" which
she had drunk during the evening.

In the meantime, a violent altercation was going on
oetween the two nurses, on the great question at issue. In
this the midwife — >who had finally fastened on one of the
children as being, she was certain, Mr Brown's — gradually
joined, and there was every appearance of a general engage-
ment taking place, when Mr Moffat v 'presented himself
and, not knowing the untoward state of matters, demanded a

sight of his son and heir. But there was no such a thing
'or him ; no child was offered to Mr Moffat ; the lot was
eserved for Mr Brown, to whom, it was still insisted, it
)elonged, entire as it stood.

" Is there nane o' them mine ?" said Mr Moffat, in amaze-
ment, after he had once or twice asked in vain which of the
;wo children were his.

His friend, Mr Brown, answered the query, by telling him
low matters stood. Mr Moffat, who was a singularly good-
natured man, and withal a bit of a wag, was tickled with
the oddness of the circumstance, and proposed that each
should take a child upon chance, and leave it to the
developement of their features at a future period, to discover
iheir identity through the medium of family likeness. Mi
Brown — who, it will be recollected, had considerable pro-
perty— did not, by any means, relish the idea of the possibility
of leaving his money to the child of another, while it was
beyond all doubt he had one of his own ; yet, as matters
stood, this was an exceedingly probable contingency. With
regard to developement of feature, that was but a vague and
uncertain issue, and not at all to be depended on. Mr
Brown felt all this ; and, feeling all this, he at first perempt-
orily and sulkily refused to accede to Mr Moffat's proposal,
but insisted on having his own child and no other. All
quite right and perfectly natural this of Mr Brown ; but how
was it to be done ? It was evident, as we have already said
quite enough to shew, that neither midwife nor nurses could
possibly tell which was which of the children ; and further
inquiry, in place of tending to clear matters up, only made
them worse, by discovering that the children, during the
operations of washing and dressing by their nurses, had
changed hands a dozen times ; so that all trace of their
respective origins was thus completely lost. The confusion,
in fact, was irretrievable. It was long, however, before the
distressed Mr Brown could be induced to consider the case
as hopeless. He ran despairingly with the children, back-
wards and forwards, between the two mothers, to see, as
nothing else would do, if natural instinct would discover
the lawful owners of the living property, and help him to
separate the claimants on his paternity. But in vain. Mere
instinct, it appeared, could not do this ; and the mothers,
till he himself produced them, had never seen their offspring,
so that neither could they identify them by recollection.

The case, therefore, was perfectly hopeless ; and John
Brown at length, though reluctantly, acknowledged that it
was so. In this frame of mind, he listened more patiently
to a repetition of the proposal which his less concerned
friend, Mr Moffat, had formerly made him. To this pro-
posal the latter now added that, in trusting to the future
developement of the children's features for settling the
point at issue, there was one feature on which he relied
more than all the rest. This was the nose. And truly
Mr Moffat had good grounds for the remark ; for his friend
Mr Brown's nose was one of the very largest dimensions.
It was in truth, a magnificent article — a huge, curved
proboscis, built elaborately after the regular Roman fashion.
It could instantly have been recognised by any one who
had ever seen it, even once amongst ten thousand noses.
There was no mistaking it, under whatever circumstances
it might appear. Now, Mr Moffat's nose, again, was after
a very different model. It was a little, cocked-up snout —
very little, and very much cocked — so much so as always
to tempt you, when you saw it, to hang your hat upon it.
Here, then, was an admirable sign — marked, distinctive,
striking, and palpable — by which to ascertain the respect-
ive paternities of the infants, when they should have grown
up a little ; for it was presumed that, if Nature formed them
in any way at all after the fashion of their papas, she
would especially recollect the nose. There, it was thought,
there would surely be a resemblance, if in nothing else.
The matter being finally placed on this footing, it was agreed

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

245

that the children should be appropriated by a decision
directed by hazard. It was accordingly so done — the way
being as follows : —

One of the women present retired into an adjoining
closet. She having done this, another placed her hand on
one of the unconscious babes, and called out —

" Wha's wean is this ?"

The reply from the person in the closet — and who, of
course, did not know which of the children was indicated —
was, " Mr Brown's."

This settled the affair ; the remaining child being, of
course, Moffat's. Each now took possession of the infant
which chance had, in this strange manner, thrown upon
his hands ; after which — all present having been previously
enjoined secrecy in the affair, as it was one so very ridi-
culous— Moffat retired to his own house, with his share of
the booty ; leaving his neighbour, Brown, to find what satis-
faction he might in his.

For a long while after this, the secrecy imposed on those
who were privy to the odd incident just recorded was very
faithfully kept — as a feeling of shame of their own conduct
made them do so ; and no one but those immediately con-
cerned knew anything at all about it. But much did the
neighbourhood marvel, as the children grew up, at the
strange resemblance which Mr Moffat's son began to bear
to Deacon Brown, (we forgot to say before that he was a
deacon,) and, vice versa, the very astounding likeness which
the countenance of young Brown commenced exhibiting to
that of Thomas Moffat. Everybody was struck with these
cross-purposes in simulation, and everybody wondered how,
in all the world, they happened. They could not explain
it ; but we can, and so could the reader, we dare say ; for
he will, we have no doubt, at once conjecture that the
chance which directed the destinations of the children, as
already described, had quartered each on the wrong papa
— that, in short, Johnny Brown had got his neighbour's son
and heir, and that his neighbour had got his. Such, in
truth, was the fact — a fact now appearing more and more
manifest every day, and leaving no doubt whatever that
a decidedly wrong move had been made in the destinies of
little Tommy Moffat, who should have been little Johnny
Brown, with the certain prospect of inheriting, at his father's
death, some six or eight hundred pounds, whereas he was
now likely to succeed only to a few crazy weaving
looms. Perhaps, however, his actual father, resorting to
the understood condition on which the children were appro-
priated, would have remedied this, by recognising his own
nose on the countenance of the boy, and leaving him, after
all, his successor. Perhaps, we say, he would have done
this — nay, it is very probable he would ; but, in the mean-
time, the good Deacon died, without having said or done
any single thing to impugn the claims of the little pug-
nosed urchin who passed as his son, to be his heir ; and it
Will readily be believed that Moffat, who felt a suspicion,
amounting almost to conviction, that the saddle was on the
wrong horse, said as little. He naturally wished his son
well. The misfortune, therefore, of him who should have
been Johnny Brown, junior, was apparently now without
remedy. He must be content with the four-loom shop,
instead of the eight hundred pounds. It was a hard case.

In the meantime, Tommy the Misnamed's nose grew
apace, and carried, in its length and breadth, undeniable
warranty of his lineage. But of what avail to him were its
noble proportions ? They developed themselves in vain.
In vain the bridge rose with a curve like a leather cutter's
knife — in vain the ample nostrils distended — in vain,
in short, did nature now labour at that important
feature on Tommy's face. It was toil and material quite
thrown away. There had been a time when it might have
done him good service ; but not now. The nose of the
unwitting usurper of his rights also got on, too, in the mean-

time, and, equally faithful to its prototype, began to take a
decided direction upwards. It first shot straight out, and
then took the heavenward bend with a graceful curl ; and
was thus as distinct and undeniable a testimony to its
originator as Tommy's was to his.

Thus, however, time passed on, and the lads both grew
up ; but, as they did so, the mistake with regard to their
allotment at theft birth became so palpable to those con-
cerned in that affair — we mean the midwife and her two
assistants — that their consciences smote them, and urged
them so strongly with a sense of the injustice to which
their inattention had exposed the son of the departed
Deacon, that they resolved to keep the secret no longer, but
to give him a hint of the affair. This was accordingly done.
The young man was greatly surprised at the story, and
said, to those who gave him the information, he had often,
indeed, been told of his strong resemblance to Deacon
Brown, but had never before been aware or had suspected
that there was such good reason for it.

Losing no time in communicating to his friends the
history of his real paternity, of which he had thus so
unexpectedly obtained possession, he was advised by them
all to try what the law could do for him in reinstating him
in his own ; each adding, that they had no doubt his nose
alone would insure him success.

Encouraged by these assurances, the young man did
finally determine on bringing the question and his nose
together into a judicial court. He, in short, resolved,
mainly on the strength of this organ — in which he was over
and over again told he might have every confidence — to have
his identity decided by the laws of his country, and, of
course, his claims along with it. The opposite party — he of
the cock nose — naturally enough resisted this attempt to
oust him ; and the consequence was, that the matter did
actually go into court. It was a new and curious case.
The midwife and her assistants swore to the facts of the
disputed identity of the infants at their birth, and to the
mode finally adopted of adjusting it ; adding their firm
belief that an erroneous distinction had been made. All
the other witnesses for the plaintiff swore to his nose, stating
it to be an exact copy of the late Deacon's very remarkable
proboscis. The learned counsel for the plaintiff expatiated
on his client's nose, and pressed it, in an eloquent and
energetic speech, on the notice of the judge and jury ;
wiping, at the same time, the cocked-up stump of the defend-
ant with successful irony. The judge, in summing up,
dwelt on the plaintiff's nose, calling on the jury to observe
that it was an important and prominent feature in the case ;
and, finally, the jury found the nose — collaterally supported
as it was by other circumstances — as a good and sufficient
ground for finding a verdict in favour of the plaintiff, which
they accordingly did, when the latter and his nose left the
court in great triumph, amidst the acclamations of a crowd
of sympathizing friends.

Young BrowH was in due time served heir to his father,
and succeeded to possessions amounting altogether, injnoney
and property, to somewhere about a thousand pounds ; which
sum he always afterwards maintained was the value of his

nose.

THE MISTAKE.

:< 0 Tarn, Tarn ! ye'll break my heart, and that'll be seen
ere lang," was the exclamation of a pretty girl, the " servant
lass" of a certain worthy minister whose manse was not at
the distance of a hundred miles from Edinburgh. " Ye'll
break my heart," she repeated, at the same time stooping
down to lift some clothes which were spread out to bleach
or dry on a small circular spot of grass in the middle of the
garden behind the house. The reader will, of course,

246

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

imagine that such expressions as these, uttered, as they
were, with a long-drawn sigh by a young and good-looking
girl, could have reference only to some affair of the heart ;
and that the " Tarn" thus pathetically and tenderly apostro-
phized, must he the favoured swain, albeit he seemed to
be somewhat cruel in his love. We say the reader will
naturally infer all this — and reluctant are we to spoil so
pretty a little piece of sentiment ; but it must be done, if we
would speak truth, and truth >ve will speak at all hazards.
This adherence to veracity, then, compels us to say that
Lizzy Lumsden's apostrophe was addressed, not to a lover,
but to a goat — yes, to a goat — a pet goat of the minister's,
which had found its way into the garden, and had left its
foot-prints on the snow-white linen which Lizzy had been
labouring to purify ; and it was the discovery of these
" marks of the beast," whose name, by the way, was Tom,
that had elicited the explanation with which our story
opens. But great events oft spring from trivial things ; and
the incident we are about to record is another striking
proof of the fact. We must, however, begin at the begin-
ning. Be it known to the reader, then, that Lizzy Lumsden
had been wooed, and was at this time fairly won, by a
loving swain of the name of John Stobie. John was the
" minister's man ;" a decent fellow, and particularly useful
to a gentleman of limited income, as he could turn his
hand to anything, and was very tolerably successful in
everything he attempted. In fact, John was invaluable.
Now, John loved Lizzy with a sincere affection ; and
perhaps it was but a proof of this, that he was not a little
jealous. Lizzy, as we have hinted, was a fresh, blooming
country lass, and withal lively and sportive — a disposition
in which she sometimes indulged at the expense of John's
equanimity ; for she certainly was wicked enough some-
times to take a delight in teasing him. Add to this, that
half the lads in the country were running after her, and it
will be allowed that John was not without reasonable
grounds of uneasiness in the matter of his affections. But
of all those who sought to find favour in her eyes, there
was not one whom he so thoroughly dreaded and detested
as a certain Thomas Dowie, a jobber at country work,
whom the minister often employed in delving and trench-
ing the glebe. He strongly suspected this person of an
underhand attempt to supplant him in the good graces of
Lizzy. And perhaps he had some reason ; for Tom was a
good-looking lad, and he had often seen him, or thought
he had seen him — which is quite the same thing to persons
in love — playing the agreeable to his affianced. This he
would at the time have resented ; but he was not altogether
so blinded by his jealousy as not to see that his grounds of
quarrel were not sufficiently good to warrant his interfer-
ence. He therefore contented himself with " nursing his
wrath to keep it warm," and with maintaining a sharp
look-out on the movements of his supposed rival, Tarn
Dowie. Now, it behoves us, in justice to the said Thomas
Dowie, to say that the suspicions of John Stobie were
wholly unfounded, and that he had never, in word or deed,
tampered with the fidelity of Lizzy Lumsden, or made the
slightest attempt to divert her affections from that very
irritable and jealous person. It is true Thomas thought
her a very pretty girl, and in every respect a very nice
creature ; but he had never aspired to her love — never
thought of it — for he knew the footing on which she and
his neighbour, John, stood, and that there was every pro-
bability of its being a marriage, and that very soon.

Having mentioned these particulars, we recur to the
incident with which we commenced. It happened, on that
occasion, and at that particular moment — that is, the par-
ticular moment when Lizzy expressed herself in the way
set forth at the outset — that John Stobie was at work
delving a piece of ground on the outside of the garden wall
on one side, and that Thomas Dowie was employed in

digging a trench on the outside of the wall on the othei
side. All three were thus within a few yards of each other,
in a straight line, although unaware of their vicinity, in
consequence of the intervening walls, which hid them from
each other. It was, besides, nearly dark, rendering objects,
at even a very short distance, indistinct. Thus situated, it
will not appear surprising that Lizzy's apostrophe to " Tarn"
should have been distinctly heard both by Stobie and
Dowie. They did hear it, and neither of them thinking at
the moment of the goat, great was the sensation which it
created in their minds ; but as different was it as it was
great. John instantly paused in his work, even while his
spade was half buried in the soil, and grew as pale as death.
His lips quivered, his head grew giddy. Oh, who shall
describe the agony of that dreadful moment, when he heard
the faithless Lizzy, forgetful of her vows and promises,
declare a secret passion for another, and that other — oh,
unendurable thought ! — Tarn Dowie — the very man above
all others whom he feared and hated ! The idea was
maddening. He felt his blood boiling and whirling in his
veins. But it was lucky he had made the discovery in
time — thus philosophically reasoned John Stobie with
himself — just in time to save himself from an unhappy
connection. " Nae thanks, however, to Tarn Dowie for
that. It wasna his faut that he wasna made miserable for
life ; and it was his faut that he was now suffering what
he suffered." It was to him he was indebted for the
annihilation of all his dearest hopes. It was to him, and him
alone, he owed the blight which had thus suddenly come
over his happiness. The transition from disappointment to
revenge was an easy and a natural one ; and John, on the
instant, determined to balance his account with his success-
ful rival by the aid of the latter. Clenching his teeth
together, in a paroxysm of rage —

" Confound me," he muttered to himself, " if I dinna gie
the villain his kail through the reek for this ! I'll draw
him owre the whins, or my name's no John Stobie. I'll lay
him on the breadth o' his back for ae month at ony rate,
if there's a stick in a' the parish '11 do't."

So saying, John, who resolved that his vengeance should
be as prompt and summary as severe, grasped a stout piece
of paling that happened to be within his reach, and
hurried away to a certain spot, which he knew his supposed
rival must pass on his way home ; and here lying perdu,
he resolved to await his coming; and, when he should
come, to gratify him with a taste of his paling.

To return to the intended but unconscious victim of
John's vengeance. We have said that Lizzy's unguarded
apostrophe had been productive of very different effects on
the feelings of these two worthies. Tarn it raised to the
third heaven — his face became suffused with a glow of
delight, and his teeth were laid bare with the broad grin of
satisfaction, by which the joy of his heart was expressed,
He was, in truth, thrown into raptures by the tender ad-
mission of the fair maiden, which had just fallen on his
entranced ear. It was more than he had ever dared to hope
for, and little, little had he been aware of the deep impres-
sion which his charms had made on the susceptible bosom
of Lizzy Lumsden. He had never dreamt of it till this
moment. But now — oh, happiness inexpressible ! — he found
he had been mistaken, and that he himself was, after all,
the darling, though secret object of Lizzy's affections. Tom
felt, indeed, some qualms at the idea of interfering with
John Stobie's claims in the matter. But was this considera-
tion sufficient to induce him to see Lizzy dying by inches
for love of him? By no means. He was by far too tender-
hearted for that . come of it what would, he determined not
to see the girl miserable, if he could help it. The confes-
sion of an attachment to him, besides, had created a corre-
sponding feeling on his part, and one so strong as to counter-
balance all other considerations. Toms in short, determined

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

247

to follow up his advantage, and to make Lizzy a happy
woman, by declaring that their love was reciprocal. Acting
on the spur of the moment on this determination — for he
generously resolved that Lizzy should not remain a moment
in ignorance of the happiness in store for her — he thrust his
head over the wall, with a most captivating smile 011 his
countenance, to have a tete-a-tete with Lizzy ; but Lizzy
was gone, and was nowhere to be seen. This was a disap-
pointment ; but he consoled himself for it, by resolving to
try and see her before he left for the night ; and, as it was
now about time to drop work, he instantly set about this
charitable purpose.

Going round to the kitchen window, he tapped at it, and
then stared in through the glass, with the most winning
iook he could assume, and with the air of one who feels
assured that he is a welcome visiter.

Lizzy was surprised at the visit — it being a liberty and an
indication of familiarity which she could not think she had
ever given Tom any reason to believe would be agreeable
to her. She, therefore, looked all the surprise she felt, and,
banging up the window, vehemently asked Tom, in an
angry tone, what he wanted. Tom, in his turn, was rather
surprised at this reception; but, attributing it to maidenly
coyness, he only tried to look more engaging. I To, however,
said nothing — not a word. The truth is, he did not know
how or where to begin ; but, trusting, or rather having no
doubt, that Lizzy would perfectly understand what he would
say if he could, he continued smirking and staring at her,
with the most tender and gracious look he could assume.
Tom, himself, might have thought his appearance at this
moment very interesting and very captivating, but to Lizzy
he looked very like a fool, and there is no doubt the resem-
blance Avas exceedingly striking.

Provoked by his stupidity, and losing all patience with
his obstinate silence, Lizzy angrily asked her lover what
he wanted ; and again her lover merely grinned a reply.
Finding it hopeless to elicit from him the purpose of his
visit, Lizzy ordered him instantly to decamp, or she would,
she said, throw a pail of water about him. Not believing
for an instant that she was earnest, Tom still maintained
his ground and his grin. Lizzy could stand it no longer.
She lifted up a small tub of almost boiling water, in which
she had been washing the tea dishes when her lover first
appeared, soused it about his ears, pulled down the window,
and closed the shutters.

On receiving this extraordinary treatment from his sup-
posed sweetheart, the drenched lover stared at the shut
window in amazement, and then began to trudge away
homewards, in a very downcast and melancholy mood,
tormenting himself with new speculations as to the cause of
this extraordinary change, and moralizing in his peculiar
way on the mutability of woman's affections, and of all the
affairs of life. He had even begun a soliloquy on the cause
of his unhappiness, when, just as he was about to clear a
thicket of whins through which he had to pass, he was
felled to the ground by a tremendous bloAV from a bludgeon
on the back of the head. The stroke, however, though
severe, and sufficient to take him from his feet, was not
yet violent enough to deprive him of his senses. He
recovered his perpendicular in an instant, and, in the same
instant, confronted his assailant, who, we need hardly say,
was John Stobie, in an attitude that spoke forcibly of con-
templated resistance. Tom, in fact, shewed fight ; and the
consequence was a long and deadly struggle, in which the
faces of the combatants suffered severely. It was some time
before Tom Dowie could possibly conjecture what he had,
been attacked for ; but this was finally made manifest to
him by the broken and breathless exclamations with which
John Stobie ever and anon accompanied the blows which he
directed at his person. These exclamations charged him
with treacherously seeking to win Lizzy's favour, knowing

the said favour to belong, by right of priority and of con-
quest, to John Stobie ; and shewing the fact of his antago-
nist's villany to be indisputable, by referring to Lizzy's
speech in the garden. For some time the issue of the con-
test was doubtful ; but at length the superior prowess of
Tom prevailed— and so effectually, that the other belligerent
fairly took to his heels, but not without carrying with him
a couple of black eyes and a nose of greatly increased di-
mensions. Tom was also provided with a similar set of
graces, and retired from the field with them in his entire
possession.

In the meantime, little did Lizzy, the unwitting cause of
all this fighting and evil-mindedness, dream of the mischiet
which she had occasioned; and, we need hardly say, still less,
if possible, did the poor goat know of the share* he had in
it. But in this happy ignorance the former was not now
long to remain. Not that she was soon to know precisely
how she had come to be the cause of such unchristian like
doings as those we have recorded, but that she was quickly
to gather, by inference from certain circumstances, that she
had, by some means or other to her unknown, destroyed
the peace of mind of Johnny Stobie.

Fresh from the field of his glory, and his countenance
ornamented in the way we have described, that person now
rushed into the kitchen of the manse, where was Lizzy
Lumsden. Horror-struck at his appearance, and yet unable
to refrain from laughing at the odd mixture of the ludicrous
with the tragic which it exhibited, Lizzy inquired, in a tone
and with a manner which was but little calculated to mol-
lify John's present feelings — " What in a' the warld is
the matter ? What has happened ?" John made no reply ;
but he threw a look at her that ought to have annihilated
her where she stood. It was meant to tell her that she was
a vile and faithless woman. But, in place of doing this, it
only made her laugh the louder. She could not help it, for
her life, much as she really did feel for the battered con-
dition of the unfortunate youth.

At length she said, with more gravity than she had hitherto
been able to command —

" Hae ye been fechtin, John ?"

John had again recourse to the look of expression ; but,
on this occasion, condescended also to speak : —

" Yes, I hae been fechtin," he said, sternly. " Wad ye
like to ken what it was for ?"

" I'm nae way curious," replied Lizzy, saucily — offended
at John's unwonted manner.

" No — I dare say no," replied John. " I fancy ye think
the less ye hear aboot it the better."

" Indeed, I'm just o' that mind, John," said Lizzy, care-
lessly.

" Ye're a fause-hearted woman," replied John, emphati-
cally, nettled at her cool effrontery, as he deemed it
" and little credit hae ye by this nicht's wark, tak my word
for that — it says little for ye."

" Oh, then, I'm thinkin it should say less for you, John,
wi' thae fearfu een o' yours. Man, ye're just a fricht to be
seen."

" An' wha has the wyte o' that, ye faithless woman
that ye are ?" demanded John, triumphantly.

" Them that made ye that way, nae doot. But wherein
hae I been faithless to ye, my man, John ?" replied Lizzy,
laughing, and proceeding with her work.

" Ye deceitful woman that ye are !" exclaimed John, in
the utmost indignation, " do ye mean to tell me to my
face that ye dinna ken? Do ye mean to say that ye're
unconscious o' haein gien me ony offence ; that ye haena
been deceivin me ; and, while ye war giein me yer hand,
gien yer heart to anither ? But it's a Gude's mercy I hae
fand ye oot in time. Mind, Lizzy," he added, with a
manner which he meant to be awfully impressive, " I've
dune wi' ye frae this nicht henceforth. Ye shall never

248

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

noo be wife o' mine. That's a owre ; so you and Tarn
Bowie may buckle to whan ye like — and the sooner ye
gang and seek consolation frae him the better."

Lizzy, as well she might, was confounded by this solemn
objurgation, of which she could by no means conjecture
the cause ; nor would her maidenly pride permit her to ask
any explanation, or to gratify John by any attempt at doing
away the erroneous impressions under which she saw he
laboured, although she could not conceive in what these
impressions had originated, She merely, therefore, blushed
slightly for an instant on being thus assailed, and replied,
with a toss of her head — that she did not see that the
losing of him (meaning, of course, the aforesaid John
Stobie) was a matter wherein she needed the consolation
of anybody ; it was but a small affair — not worth speaking
about ; and added —

" But, if I needed consolation o' ony kind, I dinna ken
if I could gang to a better hand than Tarn Dowie." Lizzy
had discovered this was a sore point ; so she probed it.

This reply was altogether too insulting a one to admit
of any answer. The «asy effrontery of it — the cold-
blooded, bare-faced heartlessness which it discovered — in
truth, deprived John altogether of the power of speech.
He, therefore, though he thought much, said nothing, but,
taking up a candle, retired to the little out-house where
he slept. But, alas ! it was not to sleep that John retired —
it was to think on the treachery of womankind, and of
Lizzy Lumsden in particular. John, in truth, passed a
miserable night. He tossed and tumbled during the long
hours of darkness, and hung weeping and groaning over
the ruins of his air-built castles of happiness. John's
peace of mind, in short, was gone — irrecoverably gone.

We have shewn that the cruelly-deceived lover slept not
a wink during the whole of this unhappy night ; and we
have now to add, that neither did Lizzy ; for she was by
no means so indifferent to John's feelings as she had
affected to be ; and an intense anxiety and painful curiosity
to know the meaning of his mysterious upbraidings
tormented her during the whole night. She thought of
all she had said and done, as far back as her memory
could carry her, to see if she could discover anything that
could possibly have given rise to the strangely-altered
temper of her lover towards her ; but she could discover
nothing — nothing whatever. But of all the puzzling cir-
cumstances in this puzzling affair, by far the most obscure
and perplexing to Lizzy was John's combat ; for he had
said nothing to lead her to infer that the fight had been on
her account. But what for had he fought ? — and who, in all
the Avorld, had he fought with ? These were enigmas, of
which Lizzy vainly sought a solution. She could make
nothing of them ; or, indeed, of any other point in the
whole affair. All was mystery and perplexity.

Thus passed the night away with the two lovers ; and,
when morning came, it found them precisely in the same
frame of mind — the one bemoaning his blighted prospects
of felicity, and the other suffering from intense and painful
anxiety of mind.

On the morning following the night on which he had
made the discovery of Lizzy's faithlessness, and on which
he had fought with his supposed rival, he found himself in
a violent fever, occasioned at once by distress of body
and mind. For three entire days thereafter, John kept his
bed, where he was repeatedly visited by his worthy master,
the minister, who had a very sincere regard for him,
having always found him a faithful and honest servant.
The former, however, beginning to suspect that his " man's"
illness was a disease of the mind, determined on ascertain-
ing the point — not from an idle curiosity, but with the
benevolent intention of offering such comfort and con-
eolation as his official character called on him to administer
to the afflicted. Acting on this charitable resolution, the

worthy pastor, on the occasion of visiting John on the
evening of the third day of his confinement, after mention-
ing to the latter his suspicion that there was something
weighing on his mind, put the question directly to him.
John for some time evaded a reply ; but at length fairly
confessed that it was so ; following up the said confession
with a circumstantial account of all that had happened ;
exposing, in all its enormity, the faithless conduct of Lizzy ;
and quoting, with due emphasis, the expressions used in
the garden, that had at once betrayed and confirmed her guilt.

When John had concluded, the worthy minister — who
was perfectly aware of the attachment subsisting between
his man and his maid, and who knew that they were soon
to have been married, he having been consulted on the sub-
ject, and given it his hearty concurrence — remarked, that
it was certainly a very strange circumstance ; that he could
not have believed that Lizzy, of whom he had always enter-
tained the highest opinion, could have been guilty of such
improper conduct. " But," added the worthy man, " have
you ever, John, asked Lizzy for any explanation of the
matter. It is possible there may be some mistake — some
misunderstanding."

John said he never had asked any explanation ; that he
had not thought it necessary, as the case appeared but too
plain as it stood.

The minister admitted that the case seemed a strong one ;
but added, that there could be no harm in hearing what
Lizzy had to say on the subject. Stepping into the house,
he brought Lizzy into the presence of the suffering victim
of her infidelity.

" Lizzy," said the minister, gravely, and in an impressive
tone, " John here, I am sorry to say, has some serioua
charges against you — charges greatly affecting your moral
character — but which I am yet unwilling to believe. He
accuses you of having deceived him, of having tampered
with his dearest feelings, and given those affoctions to an-
other which you had led him to believe were his alone. Is
this true, Lizzy ? Can this be true ?"

John, who had turned his face to the wall when Lizzy
came in, gave an audible groan at this stage of the proceed-
ings— as much as to say, " Too true, alas !"

Lizzy, however, with a look of perfect innocence, utterly
denied the fact.

John groaned again ; but now said, with great energy—
" Ask her, sir, if she didna say yon — ask her if she didna
say yon in the garden, on Monday nicht."

" What^on, John?" inquired the minister, who had for-
gotten the particular piece of evidence to which his man
alluded — or rather, perhaps, the particular phraseology in
which it was couched.

" Ask her, sir," replied John, indignantly, " ask her if
she didna say to herself, on Monday nicht, in the garden —
' O Tarn, Tarn ! ye'll break my heart, and that'll be seen
ere lang ;' meaning, of course, Tarn Dowie."

" Yes. Well, Lizzy," said the minister, " did you use
these expressions at the time and place mentioned, and with
reference to Thomas Dowie ?"

Lizzy thought for a moment, then burst into a loud laugh,
and said —

" Oh ! I daresay I did ; but, dear me, sir, I meant
the goat — oor ain goat, Tarn*— wha had been abusin a' my
claes wi' his dirty feet."

The minister laughed, and John stared in amazement.
Need we say more ? All was made up, and the two lovers
were afterwards married.

uaJ, Sfra&ttumarg, anir

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

IT is an old saying, as to the origin of which a good deal
rf controversy has taken place among quotation hunters,
that him whom Jupiter wishes to destroy, he first deprives
of reason ; and, doubtless, it is a noble maxim, containing
much knowledge of mankind, and indicating, in a few
words of startling import, that imprudence is the author
of the greater part of our misfortunes. The quotation,
however, carries more than this ; for it implies that the
imprudence which proves prejudicial to our interests and
happiness in this world, results from the attempted gratifi-
cation of some ungovernable passion, which blinds us to
the view of what is good for us, and drives us on through
the dark valley of vice, until we are destroyed in the gulf
of misery which lies yawning at its termination. This
moral is often exhibited by the actions of the deluded
votaries of sin ; and one memorable instance we are now
to submit to our readers, where the effects of evil passions
not only proved destructive to an individual, but injurious
to the community over which he enjoyed a jurisdiction.

In the town of Roxburgh, there lived, a long time ago, a
young man of the name of George Belford, by trade a cattle-
dealer, but who sometimes joined to that more extensive
business, the occupation of killing the animals he could not
sell, and retailing their carcases in a shop in the town, which,
in consequence of not being a freeman, he kept under the
name of another person. Belford, though apparently a very
plain and simple man, was ambitious of being known only
as pursuing the more respectable part of the craft of procur-
ing food for his fellow-men — a pride he derived from his
ancestors, who were Yorkshire graziers, and plumed them-
selves on their never condescending, except for their own
private use, to invert the nature of their business, by killing
in place of rearing.

Belford, though possessed of this little failing of pride,
was a good, honest fellow — as big as a giant, as simple as a
child, and, if a pair of ruddy cheeks are of any importance to
beauty, as fair as the fisherman whom Sappho loved, but
who would not return the love of the little brown poetess.
He was one of those people who generally disappear in a
country in the progress of the art of getting rich — a per-
son who lived more for others than himself, reversing the
original law of self-love, and endeavouring to do as much
good to his friends and acquaintances as was in his power ;
while his broad, good-humoured cheeks and ready laugh
carried on a continual warfare against their melancholy, and
plainly told that he himself did not know what the long,
liquid, lugubrious word was meant to convey. The good
nature he disseminated amongst all his acquaintances, was
not so much a consequence of wit or humour — for he was
too blunt and simple to have much of either — as of his un-
changeable equability of temper — his openness, candour, and
honesty — his perfect contentedness, and readiness to con-
tribute to whatever might conduce to the happiness of those
around him.

Such people as George Belford may truly be said to be
benefactors of mankind. Ever happy themselves, they are
the cause of much of that happiness that is in others. The

No. 136. VOL. III. *

laugh of pure good-nature, disregarding the mere impulses of
artificial humour, forces its way to the heart of lank melan-
choly, and makes the hypochondriac gather up his leathery
cheeks into a reluctant smile. To few are awarded the
blessings of simplicity and good-nature to the extent enjoyed
by Belford ; for, indeed, it must be admitted that it is not
often that, amidst the depraving effects of worldly interests
and seductions, the heart of man is kept pure enough to be
pleased at all times with himself and his own actions. But,
in proportion as these children of nature are scarce, they are,
by all good men, the more prized ; and Belford was, accord-
ingly, sought after by both young and old — the one to enjoy
his laugh, from youthful sympathy, and the other to court
an oblivion of cares amidst the effusions of a harmless
merriment.

Not very distant from the place where Belford carried on
his business, there lived an old widow woman of the name
of Pringle, who had a daughter called Lucy, an interesting
girl of about eighteen years of age. To this young woman
great court was paid by the young men of the town, in con-
sequence of her amiable character and engaging appearance.
The dutiful and kind attentions she bestowed on her aged
parent, was a theme of praise to the neighbours, and a sub-
ject of envy to mothers who had not experienced similar
regard from their children. The frailty of her parent, who
had long been in tender health, had, no doubt, strengthened
the sympathies of Lucy ; but the kindness she extended to
her mother was only a concentration of that feeling of univer-
sal good-will and friendship which she felt for all with
whom she was acquainted. The sweetness of her manners ;
her imperturbable good-nature ; her kind offices, ready on
every occasion and for every friend ; the softness and gen-
tleness of her speech and conduct ; her total freedom from
vanity or self-will — all set off by beauty of no ordinary kind
— obtained for this young maiden the universal favour of the
inhabitants, the affection of her friends, the loves of the
young men, and the emulation, untainted by envy, of the
young women.

As a good daughter generally makes a faithful and obe-
dient wife, it was not to be wondered at that Lucy Pringle
had many admirers. Among these might be reckoned
George Belford, who held the first place in her affections.
Her heart was also solicited by no less a personage than
the youngest bailie of Roxburgh, called Walter Paxton, a
man the very reverse of his less illustrious but more favoured
rival. Paxton had been in London ; and it was even said
he had visited Paris — a journey, in those days, of no less
importance, and reflecting nearly as great honour on those
who had the good fortune to have accomplished it, as a
voyage to China in these space-annihilating times.

In these foreign excursions, Paxton had laid down his
Scotch manners and Scotch accent, and received, in ex-
change, those of England. His Scotch honest}-, if he ever
possessed any, was left behind him at Paris. His tem-
perance he had parted with before he left his country ; hav-
ing, perhaps, considered it as a vulgar appendage in a place
like Paris, where licentiousness had, even at that early
period, begun to ape the legalized and respectable character
of a household virtue. The conduct of one who made
vicious indulgences a system formed on authority, could not

250

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

fail to cause much speculation in a small town which had
only yet known the crimes which follow the chariot of war.
Paxton was, therefore, soon pointed out as a profligate, who
erected for his private sacrifices an altar to vicious plea-
sures of every kind which could for a moment gratify a
depraved appetite. But the most remarkable part of his
character, was his total want of feeling for the miseries of
those who attempted to oppose the front of a virtuous reso-
lution against the gratification of his desires. Every man
or woman that came in the way of his pleasure, was set
down as his enemy; and such was the perversity of his mind,
that the hatred he nourished against the often unconscious
disturbers of his pleasures, was considered by him as legi-
timate and proper as if it had been directed towards public
criminals. His revenge was deadly, fruitful of endless
expedients, and apparently insatiable. The person who
incurred his displeasure might well be called unfortunate ;
for, while the powers of injury are innumerable, and the
desire of inflicting pain constant and unremitting, it is dim-
cult, if not impossible, even in highly civilized times, for
the destined victim of a disciplined avenger to escape the
snares laid for his destruction.

It may well be wondered at, that such a man as Walter
Paxton should ever have filled the situation of magistrate
in such a country as Scotland ; but it is much to be
feared that his country, though boasting of the possession
ot a good stock of private morals, has never, at any time,
been remarkable for the purity of its official characters.
Indeed, a poor country runs always a great risk of having
its public stations occupied by bad men. The power of money
is felt there with greater effect ; and bribery and poverty
are only the counterparts of public venality and corruption.
What is applicable to the higher departments of the state
is, in this respect, not unsuited to the insignificant domi-
nations of town magistracies. Paxton's money, assuming
the form of a golden key, opened for him the doors of the
Council Chamber of Roxburgh, which, otherwise, would
have been shut against his open and flagrant breaches of
public morals and private obligations. The patron of vice
sat in the chair of judgment ; and it would be difficult to
condemn it as a virtue, or censure it as a crime, that the
vices which he openly practised, and encouraged his fellow
citizens to commit, were punished by him with a severity
which deserved the character of cruelty. It may well be
supposed that his punishments were not applied to check
vice • they were the mere result of a natural love of witness-
ing pain, whether that was experienced in the victim of the
arm of the law, or that of the private avenger of his own
fancied wrongs.

Paxton had seen and admired Lucy Pringle, as he passed
from his house to the Council Chamber. He had no sooner
felt the power of her charms, than he set to work to devise
some mode of obtaining an interview with the young woman.
Though a man of unprincipled character, he had no
objections to a wife ; and such was the effect produced on
him by the appearance of this artless girl, that he had serious
thoughts of marrying her, provided he ascertained that,
upon an interview, her conversation and manners accorded
with her appearance, and that he succeeded in gaining her
affections. Such, however, was the bad character of the
man, that, even when he intended good, nobody would
believe that he was bent on anything but evil ; and, as he
intended, in this instance, first to gain her affections, and
then to declare his honourable purpose, he found an obstacle
in his own character, which was productive of such effects
as a bad reputation generally is found to be. He first
resorted to his power of external charming, by decking
himself out with his most showy apparel, exhibiting some
of those gems he had purchased when abroad, and filling the
lir through which he conveyed his precious body, with
sweet effluvia of costly perfumes. To these flimsy attributes

of wealth and fantastic conceit, he endeavoured, as he passed
the house of the unconscious widow, to attract the attention ol
her daughter ; but he had yet to learn that a woman might
be found out of Paris who could distinguish between ex-
ternal ornaments and internal worth — the things which
adorn the human body, and the qualities that sanctify and
elevate the human heart — the fabrics of man, and the work
of the Almighty. A.11 his efforts only tended to make the
innocent girl avert from him her eyes. What he fancied
would produce admiration and love, only excited disapproba-
tion. Too amiable to nourish ideas of indignation at what
she conceived to be impudence, she contented herself with
awarding to a man who could not appreciate her gentleness,
the simple boon of pity. Her imperturbable ease, and
apparent unconsciousness of being even an object of his
attention, stung him with greater pain than could have been
the effect of the strongest expressions of disgust and anger ;
and so, indeed, it ever is, that he who can bear reproach is
seldom proof against the keener weapons of neglect.

Finding every endeavour to attract the attention of the
young girl unavailing, Paxton one day, while loitering about
the neighbourhood to catch an opportunity of at least feasting
his eyes on her person, observed that the house in which the
old widow lived was ticketed for sale. A thought struck
him, that he might purchase the dwelling, and trust to the
connection which would thereby be produced between land-
lord and tenant for the means of an introduction to the object
of his affections, if not of the acquisition of a power over the
fortunes of the unprotected inmates which he could turn to
an advantageous account. The boldness of the man set at
defiance the common difficulties and obstructions that stood
in the way of the accomplishment of his objects. Having
inquired who the landlord of the dwelling was, he waited
upon him, struck an immediate bargain, and purchased the
house, with the condition of having a right to the rent for
the current half-year, which was about expiring. The reason
why the seller disposed of the dwelling was, that he could
not get payment of his rent from the poor widow; and his
sympathy for her and Lucy prevented him from turning
them out. The motive of the purchaser, again, was in truth,
the object of the seller. The poorer the tenant, the Avorse
for the one, the better for the other. It is seldom, indeed,
that the views of contracting parties are so nicely fitted ; yet
how different were the aims of the two individuals !

Lucy's kind friend and lover, George Belford, was the
first person who heard of the sale of her mother's house ;
and, knowing the character of Paxton, as well as his
endeavours to get introduced to his interesting companion,
and altogether ignorant of his real intentions, he hurriedtoher
residence to communicate the disagreeable intelligence, with
such consoling and cheering observations as his simple heart
enabled him to make When the unwelcome intelligence
was made known, the poor widow conceived she saw at once
without the aid of prophetic vision, what was the object and
what would likely be the consequence of this transaction.
She acknowledged that she would not be able to pay her
half-year's rent ; and to sue for indulgence to a person of so
bad a character, was what her spirit, broken as it was with
age and poverty, would not permit her to do. These dim
propects roused the feelings of the gentle maiden, who,
throwing her arms round her mother's neck, wept and
ejaculated with fervour —

<c The warld, mither, is to me at least — though you are
lang past the pooer o' helpin yersel — open and free for
the winnin. If I've been the cause o' this misfortune, I
may also be the cure ; and thae hands may mak amends for
the ills that hae been caused by my unworthy face. If
men thocht nae mair o' me than I do o' mysel, they would
save me rnuckle pain, and themselves nae sma' trouble ; but
there is at least ae consolation we hae in oor poverty — and
that is, whatever misfortunes may come o' my blue een,

TALES 01? THE 130KDERS.

251

which men concern themselves mair aboot than they hae
ony richt in my opinion to do, there's nane can ever come
o' my heart, which will ever justify my sayin wi' yer auld
prophet Esdras, that, o' a' the flowers o' the earth, ye hae
chosen to yersel ae lily, and o' a' the fowls that are
created ye hae still left ye ac dove. I will work, my dear
mither, for oor support, an' my arm will wax strong when
I think I am workin oot oor liberation frae the wiles o' a
villain."

" Lucy, Lucy," replied the grateful and tender motner, " ye
are indeed to me the ae lily and the ae dove ; but the frosts
o' winter may nip the ane, and the ruthless hawk is aye on
the still and noiseless wing, watchin for the ither. That
unworthy magistrate may be to you the ruthless hawk, and
yet a mother's fears ought not to cast a doubt on the faith o'
a dochter in whase heart the grain o' evil seed that wras
sawn in Adam's in the beginning has shewn fewer tokens
o' its murky blumes, than my experience has ever seen.
But, kind and guid as ye hae been to me, your remedy for
oor threatened evil is indeed an evil itsel ; for what though
[ hae bread and independence, if I want my Lucy — a few
years, it may be days, will sever us for ever, and the
moments that are in mercy still allowed us, may surely be
unclouded by separation. Your wark could do but little
for our support, and God be praised I hae a higher trust —
ay, even that o' the son o' Sirach, wha said — ' I have had
but little labour, and have gotten unto me much rest.' Our
guid freend, George, may yield us some assistance against
the schemes o' this man, whose loins are girded with the
fine gold o' Aphaz, but whase heart has nae mair o' the
qualities o' the beryl than its hardness."

" My guid auld freend," replied George — " an' I wish I
could ca' ye by some mair kindly name — I can onlygie ye the
advice I tak to mysel — keep up the spirit, an' the body will
tak care o' itsel. My freends seek me to kill their care by
my guid humour ; and, accustomed to that way o' curin
melancholy, I kenna how to heal the sorrows o' them wha
are beyond that remedy. But what I tak I may weel gie.
I am also ane o' Paxton's victims. I hae twa fauts : the
ane is that I love Lucy, and the ither that I'm not a free-
man o' the town. But let him try his hand. He may ruin
me ; but it's no in the power o' mere man to brak the heart
that's in love. Dry up your tears. In heaven ye hae a
Freend wha is stronger than a' the enemies o' earth, and
even in that scene o' strife ye hae also ae freend."

" George, ye're a puir comforter," cried Lucy, looking at
him, wistfully. " Our trust in heaven we needna be reminded
o'. The silent night, and my mother's prayers, in which I
join, as we kneel before we commit oorsels to His keeping,
are guid remembrancers o' the faith we hae in the greatest
o' a' the freends o' unhappy mortals. You hae added to oor
sorrows, George. I dinna blame ye ; but my heart smites
me sair when I think that you are also to suffer for my
worthless sake. The mither that bare me, and the man
wha loves me — my only freends on earth ! Is it possible — can
it be in the ways o' heaven — that I, a puir, helpless creature,
can be the cause o' ruining them I wad gladly dee to save ?"

Overcome by these feelings, she burst into tears, and
hung upon the neck of her mother. There was now a si-
lence in the cottage ; for there was a sacredness in the love
and sorrow of the young girl that bound up the mouths of
both her mother and lover. The old woman, pushing her
gently away, recommended again faith in heaven.

" You shall not be the cause o' our ruin, Lucy," she con-
tinued. " Sae fair a vessel was never yet made the instru-
ment o' wrath against the guid. The daughter o' Merari
did weaken Holofernes with the beauty o' her countenance,
her anointed eyebrows, and the tire that bound her hair ;
and that weakness was verily the death o* the tyrant. The
Lord made beauty the instrument o' the destruction o' him
wha sought it unlawfully ; and that bonny face, peradven-

ture as fair as Judith's, may be the cause o' ruin to ane
wha is less than the general o' the army o' Assur."

" But Judith did dress for Holofernes," said Lucy, inno.
cently. " She put sandals upon her feet, and put about her
her bracelets, and her chains, and her rings, and her ear-rings,
and all her ornaments, and decked herself bravely, to find
favour in his sight. These things I never did ; and, if the
tond thocht is false, that oot o' this evil guid may come, I
am guiltless o' claimin the affections o' this man."

" And therefore is it that I think ye are an instrument
m the hands o' the Almighty," said the mother; "for,
though He sometimes worketh with evil instruments, He
dehghteth • in the first fruits of holy things.' It's ane o'
the chosen punishments o' the wicked that their eyes in-
flame at the sight o' < the sacrifice of sanctitication,' and
their hearts burn at the thought o' the righteousness o' them
they seek after for evil. This man canna bear the sight o'
the virtuous love that warms the pure hearts o' you, my
bairns ; and so would he pollute the temple wi' the glutton-
ous and impure gods o' Egypt. But his ain gods will
devour him ; for, will I not say with Cyrus, ' Seest thou not
how much they eat and drink every day?' "

" Now you have spoken my sentiments," said George.
" Let the wicked go on. Heed them nae mair than ye do the
blast that blaws by ye, and spends its force on the face o' the
rock, only to lie quietly and dee in the valley. He canna
harm ye, Lucy — neither can he harm me ; for, if he tak
frae me my shop, and fine me in the freedom fees, I will
work to replace my loss ; and, if you only smile on me, I
will hae my reward. So will Paxton hae his. The people
o' Roxburgh will be roused against him for oppression, and
he'll hae faes around him, within him, and aboon him."

" Let him do his warst," cried Lucy, deeply affected by
George's sentiments, and flinging herself on his neck.
" With my mither as our counseller, you as my friend and
lover, and God as the protector o' us a', we may be as the
face o' that rock ye hae mentioned, and the winds that break
upon it may change into the silence o' the valley o' peace."
The hint thrown out by Belford, in his reply to the
widow, had some foundation in truth ; for, one day when
Paxton was parading before Lucy's door, his ears were
greeted with George's good-natured laugh ; which. — though
not directed towards him — having resulted from a con-
versation in which he was engaged with some neighbours,
the haughty bailie conceived to have been intended to cast
ridicule upon him, and lower him in the estimation of the
public. He had known previously that Belford was Lucy's
lover, and it may be imagined that little more was required
to call forth the usual indications of his malignant spirit.
He soon discovered that Belford's shop was within the
royalty; and that the person in whose name the business
was carried on, had no interest in the profits, but was a
mere servant in the employment of Belford, and receiving
from him wages in that capacity. In these circumstances,
his quick eye soon saw that Belford was liable to a prose-
cution for infringing on the rights of the burgh ; and he
resolved, though not till he saw the issue of his suit with
Lucy, to prosecute him for damages, and interdict the
further prosecution of his business within the burgh.

Some time after the purchase of the house, the new
landlord called at Widow Pringle's, with the object of feel-
ing his way, and laying a proper foundation for putting for-
ward his suit. He found Lucy sitting by her mother
reading to her a portion of Scripture ; and, with his usual
impudence, disregarding the impression which he knew his
former conduct must have produced on his hearers, accosted
them thus —

" You will be aware, my good lady, that you are now
my tenant ; and I am glad, indeed, that Providence has
placed you under a protection which cannot fail to be of
importance to age, when that, as your former landlord tells

252

TALES OF THE B011DERS,

me, is allied to poverty. He sold to me the house because
you could not pay his rent ; and, as I have often heard of
your worth, I could not think of allowing you to he brought
under the griping exactions of a purchaser who would not
want his money ; and therefore took upon myself the risk
of a purchase, that I might have it in my power to give you
that indulgence of which you stand in need."

The poor woman lifted up her eyes, and directed them,
in the fulness of curiosity, on the face of the speaker. She
was for a moment thrown off her guard, and was about to
reply thankfully to this speech of proffered kindness, when
she met the looks of her daughter, who did not seem to par-
ticipate in her feelings. She, therefore, gently bowed her
head, and said that she had received from her former land-
lord great indulgence, and had no reason to speak of him
otherwise than with gratitude.

Not in any degree put out of countenance by the dry
remark of the widow, Paxton proceeded —

" I do not admire pretences in any one ; and empty
promises are like early buds, which have drawn too liberally
on the beams of an early sun. I wish to shew you that I
am sincere ; and have accordingly written out a paper,
which I have now in my hands, whereby I will agree to
your paying your next rent at any time before the feast of
St John, which will give you ample time ; and, if I get it
then, it will be equally convenient for m*,. It will be
necessary that you sign the paper, agreeing to pay the rent
at that period ; and I will even promise that this indulgence
will not be exclusive of an additional one, if you shall,
when the day of payment comes, require it.

Paxton knew well the answer that would be given to his
request — viz. that the old woman could not write ; and that
answer was accordingly given. Prepared for this, he asked
the name of the old woman, and was apparently pleased to
hear that it was the same as her daughter's. He then
promptly said, that the young woman could adhibit to the
document the name of the mother. Lucy saw no objection
to this ; and her mother having requested to hear the paper
read, and stated that she sawnothing in it that could be turned
to her disadvantage, her daughter wrote under it the words
Lucy Pringle, as her mother's name — forgetful, simple girl,
that it was also her own, and she, being the writer of it,
must be held to be the true subscriber.

The moment the paper was signed, Paxton seized it
eagerly and put it into his pocket. He then endeavoured
to direct to him. the attention of Lucy; but he still failed to
make the slightest impression on her. His fervent glances
fell on a piece of marble ; his eloquent language was re-
plied to by cold, yet suitable and well-bred remarks. He
could neither excite her admiration nor rouse her anger ;
and the exasperation such neglect produces in proud minds
was gradually gaining ground upon him, notwithstanding
the determination he had made before he entered, to with-
stand all temptations to anger or reproach; yet what he
most felt, was the want of a proper subject of complaint, for
such was the elevation of mind of the humble girl, that she
did not stoop to shew that she considered him worthy even
of her anger. The accension of his love, and the workings
of hurt pride, were reciprocal ; but the passion of the mo-
ment overcame him, and he taxed the young woman with
ingratitude and want of feeling for the interests of her
mother, whom he had benefited by the paper he had accepted
at her hands.

Even this charge did not produce any effect on the phi-
losophic Lucy. She coldly answered that, where there was
no favour solicited, no gratitude was due for an obligation
conferred, when the party apparently favoured could put a
construction on the gift different from that which the giver
claimed. Yet she admitted that she \vas grateful for his
proffered kindness, and would not adopt the uncharitable
construction until she saw what time would prove in favour

of his declared wish to do good to her parent. This sensi.
ble and well-timed remark again threw Paxton off his guard,
and he felt inclined, like the wolf in the fable, to force upon
the innocent lamb the indictment of which he was the
originator and the judge. At this moment Belford came in,
and Lucy thanked heaven for the relief. The simple, good-
humoured lover felt no indignation against Paxton — for he
saw no danger in his attempts to win the affections of Lucy ;
and the milk of human kindness flowed so plentifully in his
veins, that he could harbour no hatred even against an
enemy. He accosted Paxton at once with his usual salut-
ation : —

" I am glad, yer Honour," said he, " that ye hae ex-
pressed yersel kindly to my twa unprotected freends, wha
are truly worthy o' yer best regard. The auld widow was
afraid ye would be to her a harsh landlord ; but I tauld hei
to keep up her spirits, for God protects his ain — as we say
on the hills, the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb ; and
what reason could yer Honour hae for oppressing twa de-
fenceless women, wha never injured ye ? The wolf is only
cruel because he is hungry — the fu' lion has nae anger ; and
it's weel kenned yer Honour's rich. I think nae ill o' ony
o' God's creatures ; but, though I were to be deceived in this
instance, I can e'en mend the faut, by paying the next half
year's rent mysel. I would think mysel weel paid, by a
smile o' that bonny face o' Lucy's, though I ken she never
expects ony return for sic a favour, but a smile o' mine — •
a puir reward indeed, and to her a waefu bargain."

As George spoke, he laughed in Lucy's face ; and she,
notwithstanding the presence of Paxton, gave him in return
a melancholy smile. The contrast between her reception of
George's compliments and that of his own, stung him with
jealousy and vexation. The good-nature of Belford, it was
impossible to get over. There was not afforded a single
peg on which to hang the charge of a fault. As the angry
waves chafe themselves on the still and often smiling banks
on which they dash, Paxton's anger increased in proportion
to the ease and good-humour with which he was treated.
The innocence and simplicity of the lamb incensed the wolf
more than his hunger chafed him. He felt himself under
the unfavourable operation of a contrast, with innocence or
the one side and villany on the other. He attempted tc
restrain his feelings, but found that what his tongue con-
cealed his fiery eye and trembling hand exposed, and, dart-
ing on Belford a glance of deep hatred, he suddenly left the
house.

Next day, Belford received a summons, at the instance of
the magistrates, to make payment of a large sum of damages,
asserted to have been occasioned to the town by the col-
lusive possession he, an unfreeman, had had of a shop
within the royalty, under the name of another person ; and
to desist in future from carrying on his business in that
quarter, or in any other place situated within the burgh
privileges. This step was the act of Paxton, who saw that,
unless he disabled Belford, he could derive no advantages
from having purchased the property ; because the latter, by
affording his promised assistance to the widow and daughter,
would operate as a valve to save the effects of his pressure.
In this he would serve two objects : he would revenge
himself on the good-natured Belford, who had done him
the grievous injury of forestalling the affections of the
interesting Lucy, and whose laughing face and contented-
ness spoke a satire on his morose and dark manners, and
disturbed mind ; he would also be more sure of his lively
victim, who, unprotected by her lover, would fall into his
hands, a prey of necessity and villany.
,-.: Belford was not much disconcerted by this proceeding of
Paxton's. He could not fail to see that it was a piece of
gratuitous spleen ; but it is doubtful if his open and un-
suspicious mind comprehended the whole extent of the
profligate scheme. He viewed the prosecution as a mis

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

253

fortune which could not he alleviated by mourning over it ;
and, having appointed a man of business to defend him,
continued the ordinary well-contented tenor of his way,
keeping before his eyes continually the happy day, not far
distant, when he would be enabled to make Lucy Pringle
his wife. His attentions to her were unremitting ; and it
was his usual practice to take her to witness the amuse-
ments of the times, among which the fairs of Roxburgh
held a prominent place, in consequence of the great influx
of the English, who came there for the double purpose of
enjoying themselves and carrying on traffic. On the next
of these occasions, Belford and Lucy had resorted to that
part of the town where the tents were erected, and the
greatest concourse of people had collected.

The scene of the fair was of the most stirring character ;
and, indeed, it might safely be alleged that the Roxburgh
fairs of those days were the finest specimens of merry-mak-
ing in the kingdom. The proximity to the more civilized
country of England gave the town an advantage over all
the others in the kingdom in this respect; and mountebanks
of all grades — including rope-dancers, posture-makers,
morris-dancers, mimes, merryandrews and jugglers — per-
formed their feats and evolutions, and played off" their tricks
and fooleries, in the midst of admiring multitudes. Plays,
too, were enacted, by what were termed the English vaga-
bonds ; and Scottish minstrels, excited by the emulation
produced by the foreign performers of the histrionic art,
strained their memories and their lungs to gather around
them those crowds without which all the genius of impro-
visation could avail ihem nothing.

As Belford and Lucy stood in the middle of this gay, noisy,
motley scene, they saw a large party of the English, who
had come from Roxburgh Castle, mixing with the retainers
of that powerful Earl or March who in those days imitated
the style and grandeur of a king. Between these parties
there existed old deep-rooted prejudices, the smouldering
fires of old enmity, ready, in a moment, to burst forth on the
application of a passing blast. Many of the English were
intoxicated, and applied to the Scotch many degrading
epithets, which were answered by others of an equally ag-

fravating kind. The consequence was what might have
een expected. A scuffle ensued, in the midst of which
Belford was separated from his terrified companion, and
implicated in the broil, by receiving a severe blow in the
face, which stung him with so much pain that he involun-
tarily pressed forward to seize the person who had inflicted
it. At the very moment when he had come up to his
enemy, an Englishman, who had been also pursuing him
for a similar purpose, stabbed the stranger to the heart,
and he fell in the arms of Belford, who, getting the dead
victim of another person's crime thus forced upon his
charge, trembled to contemplate the consequences of being
thought to be himself the perpetrator of a murder. To
add to his embarrassment and distress, the persons who
gathered around him discovered the murdered man to
be an esquire of the Earl of March ; and a loud shout of
revenge broke from the infuriated populace.

As Belford stood with the corpse leaning on his breast,
Lucy Pringle came running up, breathless and terrified, and
at her side appeared Paxton, who had watched the moment
of separation of her and Belford, with the view of attaching
her to him ; but she, excited by the danger in which her
lover was placed, and tortured by the importunities of her
tormentor, repulsed him with more than ordinary spirit.
At that moment a shout arose, and many voices bawled
out that Belford had killed March's equery. Lucy screamed
and ran forward, and Paxton accompanied her, crying,
with a loud voice, which mixed strangely with the shrieks
of the maiden, to seize Belford, the murderer, on his, a
magistrate's authority. The scene was wild and impressive.
The head of the dead man hung over Belford's arm. The
136 t

blood from the corpse had sprung up into his face, where
grief, terror, and despair strove for mastery. Lucy bounded
forward and hung upon his neck; and Paxton, dragging her
away, still cried to the crowd to secure the murderer. In
the midst of this extraordinary scene, March's followers
rushed forward and relieved Belford of his burden. The
crowd now split into two parties. One division, headed by
Paxton, insisted on Belford being the murderer ; but another
division, which was the stronger, maintained that the per
petrator was an Englishman. A scuffle again ensued, and
an uproar of a fearful kind filled the town with terror and
dismay.

In the confusion produced by the contention of the two
parties, Belford escaped, followed by Lucy, who had kept
her eye upon him wherever he went. They met at the
turn of a narrow lane, up which they hastened, and were
soon out of sight of the men whom Paxton had instructed
to guard his rival. By the time they reached home, the
noise had, to a great extent, ceased ; and a number of people
from the crowd hurried forward to inform Belford that the
people of the town were now all satisfied that the person
who had committed the murder was an Englishman. His
sword, wet with blood, had been secured, though the culprit
had found refuge in Roxburgh Castle. Belford himself
had no sword ; and this circumstance tended in a great
measure to satisfy the people that he was entirely in-
nocent of the crime. Paxton was said to be in a great
rage when the crowd turned against him, and many went
so far as to accuse him of a wish to implicate an innocent
man against whom he bore a grudge, on a charge of the
commission of a crime of which the united voice of the
public declared him innocent.

This affair died away. The public authorities made no in-
quiries after Belford ; but indelible traces of the effect of the
affray were left on the revengeful heart of his persecutor, and
rendered visible by the fury with which he now pushed on
the civil action against the man who had never injured him.
He had heard that Belford and Lucy were soon to be united ;
and, in order to secure the judgment of the town-clerk in
his favour, and within the earliest possible time that the
forms of court would permit, bribed him, by sending to
his wife a handsome present of plate. He was determined
that, whether he secured the object of his affection or not,
she should never insult him by becoming the wife of
another.

Paxton, in the midst of his love and rage, had, however,
penetration enough to enable him to foresee obstacles in the
accomplishment of his designs against the fortunes and liberty
of his rival. The debt brought out against him he might
be able to pay ; and, if he could also free Lucy of her
obligation to him for the rent, they might bid him defiance,
defeat his schemes of love and revenge, and become united
and happy in spite of his efforts to entail upon them misery
He resolved, therefore, on having an alternative scheme of
persecution. He had not forgotten the affair of the murder,
and had been devising various modes of turning it to account
against his rival. He knew that, in consequence of the
universal good opinion that Belford enjoyed in the town and
country, and of the prevailing belief that he was entirely
innocent of the crime, he could not dare to indict him before
the southern justiciar for murder. The public prosecutor
had, indeed, already satisfied himself that no blame attached
to Belford, who, independently of his excellent character,
had no ground of quarrel with March's esquire, and wore
no weapon by which the death-blow could have been
dealt. Another scheme was, therefore, resorted to.

It had been surmised in the town that March had been
greatly incensed at the murder of his favourite, and was
anxious to discover the author of the crime. Paxton
heard the report, and proceeded to take advantage 01
his official situation in communicating with the Eari

254

TALES OF THE BORDERS

He got up a number of written statements, by various
individuals, tending to make out that Belford was the
author of the crime. One person stated that the esquire
had struck Belford, which was the fact, and that the latter
\vas seen to follow his victim, who, in a moment after, fell.
JMany spoke to the blood seen on Belford, and to his having
received the dead body in his arms as it fell ; and some
were bribed to say they saw the blow struck by the hand
of Belford himself. These concocted instruments were
dispatched by Paxton to the Earl, with a letter, stating that
he himself was satisfied that Belford was the man who had
deprived the Earl of his favourite retainer, and recom-
mending to him to send and take vengeance on the culprit,
•who would otherwise escape, as the public authorities had
refused to punish him.

Leaving this communication to work its expected effects,
Paxton, still inflamed with his passion for Lucy, took every
opportunity of calling at the widow's house, to speak of
repairs, or any other invented subject which miffht affjrd a
pretence for a visit. Belford he often met, and was sur-
prised to find hira not only apparently oblivions of his
unfriendly conduct on the occasion of the m irder, but
retaining his good humour, and by no means disposed to
charge him with his inimical designs. This only tended to
increase his anger. In a short time decree was pro-
nounced against Belford, ordaining him to pay one hundred
and fifty merks of damages, and interdicting and prohibiting
him from " breaking or vending fleshes, within burgh,
in all time coming." Unable to pay this large sum, the
debtor was thrown into jail ; and his persecutor saw with
exultation the ground clear for his attack upon the unfortu-
nate girl, who was now inconsolable for the loss of her
lover.

The prosecution of poor Belford having been conducted
in name of the town, Paxton thought that his hand in it
would not be observed. On the day after his apprehension,
he accordingly called at the house of the widow, under
the pretence of intimating to her that the feast of St John
approached, to which period he had indulged her in the
payment of her rent. The old woman, who had been
trusting to Belford to pay for her this small sum, with tears
in her eyes for the fate of her friend, and the consequent
misfortunes which that fate was likely to entail on her and
her daughter, told him that she would not be in a situa-
tion to satisfy his demand for some time longer, and
requested another period of indulgence.

" I hae nae reason," she said, " to complain o' the ways
o' Him wha has protected me for sae mony years. Though I
and my dochter hae suffered meikle sorrow, I winnna say
\vi' Job that the Lord shall riot visit me every morning, and
try me every moment — for misfortunes are his visits and
his trials, and my heart, as weel as my dochter's, has
experienced the sanctifying sweets o' tribulation. Though
our guid freend George Belford is in the custody o' the
scribes, I shall yet trust in his means o' savin us ; for, though
the fig-tree was struck dead, and did wither, because it
carried nothing but leaves, the fruit o' his charity is only
bound up for a season in the frosts o' an unlawfu persecu-
tion, which Justice will, in God's own time, melt wi' her
summer smiles."

" It it is to Belford you trust, my good woman," said
Paxton, " your faith is in a broken reed ; for I understand
that his effects, when sold, as they are shortly to be, will
not pay the debt he owes to the town for the unwarrantable
encroachment he made on the burgh privileges: but, as 1
had no hand in his prosecution, I should like to be acces-
sary to his liberation. I bear no ill will to him ; and, if
your daughter Lucy would call at my house to-morrow
evening, 1 shall, in the meantime, try and devise some plan
for his benefit, and communicate the result of my delibera-
tions to her. that she may lend a hand in the $ood work,

and free the man who is also to benefit me by paying me
your rent."

This wily speech, made for the purpose of drawing Lucy
to his house, threw the old woman off her guard. She
recommended her daughter to go ; and the latter, anxious
to contribute to the liberation of her lover, promised to
wait on him at the time stated ; and the dissembler departed
in high hopes of reaping the benefit of his multifarious
schemes for bringing ruin on an innocent girl and her
honourable lover. Lucy had, however, formed a resolution,
in her own mind, first to see Belford before visiting Paxton.
•^he expected no great assistance in the way of advice from
her unsuspicious lover ; but she wished to know from his
own lips the state of his affairs, and the probability, if any
existed, of his power to extricate himself from prison, and
her and her mother from the tender mercies of her dishon-
ourable admirer.

Next morning, accordingly, Lucy having offered up a
prayer to the Author of all mercies for the success of her
mission, went to the jail to ask permission to see her lover.
She was told by the jailor that she could not be admitted,
as he had got particular instructions from Bailie Paxton
not to allow her in particular to see the prisoner. This
communication satisfied the unfortunate girl that the
imprisonment of Belford was a part of the plan laid bj
Paxton to get her within his power. She hesitated nov»
about trusting herself, unprotected, within the walls of his
house ; but her courage, which resulted from conscious
rectitude, was, as she thought, greater than his, which
was grounded on villany ; the physical weakness of a
female form was not greater than the moral palsy of a
remorse-stricken heart ; and the proud attitude of innocence
carried a power which vice has often been forced to feel
and acknowledge. Such were the sentiments which induced
the high-minded maiden to visit her enemy in his own
den.

In the evening she went at the hour appointed. She
was astonished to find, on knocking at the gate,- that the
servants had been sent out of the way. Paxton himselt
opened the gate, and held out his hand to welcome her,
with all the sweetness which he was capable of assuming.
The room into which he led her was, like his person,
arrayed and perfumed, so as best to set off the contrast of
luxury and humble poverty. Yet how ignorant ofien are
conceited men, who plume themselves on their knowledge
of weak women, of the true and natural springs of the
human heart ! Lucy sighed for a cottage of which George
Belford would be the humble lord ; and the glittering splen-
dour with which her eyes were attempted to be glamoured,
seemed to her only the gold and silver scales of the serpent,
which nature has arrayed in deceptive beauty. The lover
commenced his operations by handing Lucy a chair, and
seating himself by her side.

" If you knew," he began, "my charming maiden, how
much pain you have produced to me since first I saw you,
I would dare to hope that she who has received so many
of nature's gifts, and cannot be presumed to want pity,
would extend a kind and assuasive hand — even as the
royal touch is applied in mercy to the cure of otherwise
irremediable deseases — to alleviate my misery."

" It was my understanding, sir," replied Lucy, with a
voice and manner which indicated that the speech of Paxton
had been heard unheeded, " that oor meeting this day
concerned an unfortunate man now confined in the jail o'
Roxburgh, and whase liberty concerns my happiness and
my mither's independence. I clinna choose to use either
my tongue or my ears in ony ither behalf; and if it's no
your inclination or interest to abide by the subject in hand,
I can gae the road I cam, and trust to a higher Power for
the succour o' the distressed."

" Your interest in this vulgar man," said Paxton, biting

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

255

his lips, hut still master of himself, " but ill becomes your
beauty and understanding, arid the fame of both, in a town
where b.-auty h:is carried off the prize from its neighbour-
ing burghs. If his liberation is sought so anxiously by
you, tnat he maybe able to pay your mother's rent — which
he may as well do in prison — tins object may be gained
by a shorter process; for you have only to smile upon
me, and the debt is discharged : yea, a kindness suitable
to my love would be received by me, your devoted lover,
as a recompense for the house itself, which would be wel-
come to your mother as her exclusive property for life."

" I hae anither and a mair important interest in George
Belford's liberation than the payment o' my mither's rent,"
replied Lucy, " though, doubtless, that, to a dochter wha
loves her parent, as duty requires, is o' nae sma' avail."

" It is, perhaps, of more avail than you are aware of,"
said Paxton, getting angry at her hinted attachment to
Belford ; " for you know, my proud beauty, that you your-
self are my debtor. I hold a document, signed by your
hand and hearing your name, for payment of my rent.
The jail o' Roxburgh" (attempting to laugh) "would be an
unsuitable place for the residence of a beauty."

" Tlv re would, at least, be nae rent demanded frae me
there," replied Lucy, naturally, though without any inten-
tion to be sarcastic.

"A truce to these unfriendly observations," cried Paxton.
" I love you, Lucy, as never man loved. Say you will
favour my suit, and Belford shall be free, your rent dis-
charged, and your mother made happy for her life. You
shall be mistress of my heart and fortunes — my wife — the
regulator of my actions — and the dispenser of my happiness.
Unbend, I entreat" — throwing himself on his knees and
endeavouring to kiss her hand — " these unseemly frowns,
which deform a face fairer than an angel's, and reward me
with one moment's bliss for months of misery and anguish."

This warm appeal produced no effect upon the high-
minded maiden. 1 hough she believed Paxton's mention of
a wife to be a mere attempt to engage her favour, she acted
no part of affected resentment, exhibited no starts or emo-
tion of any kind, but, rising calmly, said, that he himself
had now given the signal for her departure. A collected
courtesy, as she receded, evinced her superiority to an exhi-
bition of offended pride, and cut her lover to the heart, who
expected no result from his suit but kindness or anger.
Her coolness was a neglect which roused him beyond a
proper command of himself; and Lucy, seeing the storm
gathering, quickly opened the door, and, before he recovered
himself, escaped to the street.

The effect of this interview was to introduce into Paxton's
mind a desire for revenge. His fair means having failed,
he bethought himself of the resources of force. The jailor
of Roxburgh was one of his creatures ; and, if he had Lucy
fairly under the keeping of his iron grasp, she would be
Within his power, and there was to his mind a pleasure in
the contemplation of having free access to her under the
very roof where his rival was confined. He had a few days
to wait until the arrival of the day of payment of the rent
stipulated in Lucy's obligation, \vhich he had so treacher-
ously got her to sign, lie would then bribe the town-clerk
to give him an expeditious decree, and the consummation
of his wishes would be complete.

His intention was carried into effect. A decree was pro-
nounced in a short time against Lucy Pringle. to make pay-
ment to Walter Paxton of the rent of the house occupied
by her mother. No intimation of this step was ever made
to Lucy ; for, although the law requires what is technically
called a citarion to be given to a debtor before any judg-
ment can pass against him, Paxton had taken care, by get-
ting the officer to put the citation into his hands, to prevent
it ever reaching those of Lucv. One night, as she sat by
her mother's side, reading to her a chapter of her favourite

prophet, two officers entered the house, and exhibited to
the unfortunate inmates a warrant for committing the per-
son of Lucy Pringle to the jail of Roxburgh.

" It is not my dochter," ejaculated the old woman, " wha
is awin the rent o' this dwellin. I took the hoose, and it
is meet that the burden should fa' on the back o' her wha
becam bound to bear it. The auld sinner, wha is to be
made acceptable to the Lord through the furnace o' adver.
sity, will be a gainer by this judgment ; and her prayers,
like Jeremiah's, will be heard frae a low dungeon. Mak
me your prisoner; affliction and misery, and wormwood and
gall, are for the eild, wha can dree the bale and dule o'
warldly punishments ; but leave, oh, h-ave to tlie young, the
fair, and the innocent, the light o' that sun whilk only in
the heyday o' youth shews nae shadow on the dial o' their
pleasures. Ye are auld men yersels, and surely ken that
adversity brings frae the auld heart prayers, and frae the
voung ane curses. To the ane a prison is a tabernacle, to
the ither a Gehennah. Judge, for the sake o' heaven — judge
the fatherless, and hear the appeal o' the widow."

As the poor old woman uttered these sentiments with the
revived spirit of a dead enthusiasm, she held forth her
hands in a beseeching attitude to the messengers; but they
were requested to spend no time in negociation, and, without
giving more time than allowed Lucy to throw a clonk over
her, they hurried her away, regardless of the fall of the
old mother, who came to the ground with a loud scream, as
she saw her daughter — her last stay and support — carried
away to a jail.

Lucy having been safely lodged in prison, and put under
the custody of a man whose office depended on obeying the
commands of Paxton, and who was otherwise well paid for
pandering to his purposes, was, as Paxton thought, in a
fair way for being brought to reason on the absurdity of her
choice, in preferring a boor to a gentleman. Another
attempt, by fair means, to get her to bestow upon him some
part of her regard, he conceived might, after she had felt
the horrors of a jail, rendered more terrible by the efforts
of the jailor, be attended with success ; but it was necessary
to allow her indignation to subside (he had still to learn
that her only feeling was pity) before he presented himself
to renew his suit. In the meantime, his communication to
the Earl of March would, perhaps, have the effect of get-
ting rid of Belford, whose confinement was now becoming a
theme of conversation, and a subject of sympathy. March's
retainers could easily be let into the jail, under the pretence
of breaking it open ; and the fierce customs of those days
would leave the poor prisoner little chance of escaping from
them with his life.

It was indeed true that March did intend to act upon the
information given by Paxton ; but not, perhaps, in the way
the latter contemplated. His Lordship had secretly set on
foot a rigid system of inquiry as to the murderer of his
esquire. Regular communications were made to him by hia
emissaries, and the whole history of the persecution of Bel-
ford and Lucy had reached him, as connected with the im-
peachment of the former by Paxton, as the guilty person of
whom March was in search. The result of his inquiries
was, that his esquire was killed by the English, and that
Paxton could not fail, as a mngistrate, to know this as well
as himself. The schemes of the bailie were laid bare, and
the anger of the Earl against the slayers of his esquire was
only equalled by his disgust at the villany of Paxton, who
had endeavoured to direct a nobleman's vengeance against
an innocent citizen, to gratify a base object. These con-
clusions were, of course, kept secret from Paxton, and in-
deed from every inhabitant of Roxburgh ; the Earl's designs
'oeing inconsistent with their discovery to any one not con-
nected with their accomplishment.

The situation of Lucy in prison was made as uncomfort-
able as the cruelty of the jailor could effect, by the aid 01

256

TALES O* THE BO11DERS.

a wicked invention. Her couch was on the floor, and she
had not covering sufficient to protect her from the gusts of
wind that found their way through the grating, which
afforded her a dim light to assist her in her devotions.
Her food was stinted, and her only drink brackish water,
brought from a distance, that its impurity might be un-
doubted. The conduct of the jailor was intentionally bru-
taL The object of all this cruelty was to set off, by contrast,
the blessings which were promised her by her persecuting
admirer ; but she bore all with the determination and equa-
bility of a saint. Her unbounded confidence in a rectify-
ing and requiting Providence, sustained her through all ;
and she received Paxton, when he had summoned up cou-
rage to call, not only without any appearance of ill-nature,
but with something like an indication of that good breeding
and amenity of temper which she always exhibited, and
which he ever felt bitterly, as a satire on his conduct and a
mockery of his designs.

The fair usually held at the feast of St Lawrence now
approached, and Paxton fixed upon that day to bring his
resolutions regarding Lucy to a crisis. On that day, ac-
cordingly, he repaired to the jail. On his way thither he
was painted at by various of the citizens, who had begun to
see through the schemes of their civic dignitary ; but the
pride of the man construed the marks of attention into the
demonstrations of respect. As he turned the corner of the
street where the jail stood, he saw Lucy's mother sitting
weeping on a stone at a small distance from the place of
confinement of her daughter, and so as probably to be in
the view of the lonely prisoner, as she looked through the
small grated hole that afforded a scanty light to her dun-
geon. Every now and then the old mother turned her
longing eyes up to the small aperture, and the tears stole
down her cheeks as she thought of the persecutions to
which her daughter was exposed. Spurned from the pri-
son door by the creature of her persecutor, she had sat down
there to gratify the yearnings of a mother's heart, by feast-
ing her eyes on the black castellated tenement that contained
all that was dear to her on earth. Several people standing
by seemed to know the cause of her sorrows ; but the
dreaded power of the magistrate prevented them from exhib-
iting their sympathy.

" Stop, sir !" cried the mother, as she started up and
seized the magistrate by the hem of the cloak in which he
was wrapped. 4< Whither fliest thee, 'as the eagle that hast-
eth to eat?' Give me up my dochter, wha is under the iron
keys of thine iniquity. It is I wha am your debtor, and
here I sit to wait my entry into that house which was never
intended for keepin the sun frae the cheeks o' youth and
innocence. Tak me, or tak us baith. The just shall live,
and the unjust shall perish. These are the words of the
prophet — hear and tremble. Give me my dochter — my
bairn — my support and consolation on earth ; and 1 will pray
for ye wi' the expirin breath o' a Christian."

And she clung to him, in spite of his endeavours to shake
her off. Several of the neighbours gazed on the extraordi-
nary scene, and the magistrate, angry and ashamed, by a
hurried effort flung her from him. in the struggle she fell
on her knees, and in this attitude cried, holding up her
hands —

" He hath laid my vine waste, and barked my fig-tree
clean bare, clean bare ; and with withered leaves has he made
it, and cast it away. Men, men of Roxburgh, where is your
auld spirit ? Is there nae justice i' the land ? Tell ye your
children of it, and let your children tell their children, and
their children another generation. The widowed mother
has cried in vain for her baiin, and the Council Chaumer o'
Roxburgh is turned to the judgment ha' o' Nicanor.

The concluding part of her speech was cried in a loud
voice broken by sobs, and pierced Paxton's ear, as he hurried
awa.v like the sting of an adder; but it rather goaded him

on his career than called up conscience, and, turning up a
by-lane, he reached the jail door unobserved by the people.

On entering, he was greeted by his prisoner with the
usual tokens of an unbroken temper and perfect calm-
ness ; but, as he began to approach her with a familiarity
which her knowledge of his character made her fear, her
spirit rose to the pitch of virtuous enthusiasm, and she
stood boldly up in defence of her dearest rights.

" They tell us," cried she, " that the defence o' weak
woman lies in the heart o' man. So thought I, and up to
this hour I hae acted on the maxim. I trusted to it when
I treated your rudeness with gentleness, and your boldness
with a calm confidence. I was wrang. Stand afT, or ye
may learn that I trust to anither defence than the generosity
o' oor natural protectors."

" You may rue this haughtiness, madam," he said,
" long before you reap the benefit of your affected pride
You have spurned my love, rejected me as a husband,
defied me as a just creditor, and insulted me as a magis
trate. What does all this deserve ?"

" What it merits," responded Lucy — " what an honest
man will say it merits, when he kens I never asked yer
love, never made ye my creditor, and never refused honour
to ye as a magistrate, till ye dishonoured yoursel."

" Again and again more insults, in place of love !" cried
he " But a kiss, they say, extracts all the poison out of
a woman's heart."

'' And sometimes sends power into her arm," replied she,
retiring farther back, and seizing an iron bar that stood in
the corner of the jail. " This," she continued, " was
forged as an instrument o' oppression ; but I may find in
its hardness mair o' a woman's defence than lies in man's
heart. Offer me the rudeness that will turn ae hair o' my
locks, and ye may ken the strength o' a woman whan she
has to defend her honour."

" A heroine ! a heroine !" exclaimed the magistrate,
rushing forward to seize the bar. A severe stroke on the
arm rendered him furious. He cried loudly for the jailor ;
but at this moment a loud shout was heard from the street —
people were running in all directions — the clash of arms
resounded from various quarters — and the screams of people,
apparently dying, struck the ear of the astonished Paxton.
Letting go his hold of Lucy, he stood and listened. A
huge battering-ram struck the prison door, making the
walls of the crazy house shake from their foundation.
Loud cries of " March !" rent the air, and the whole town
seemed to be in a state of intestine war. The prison-door
gave way, and a party of March's men entered the cell
where Lucy stood, contemplating the craven face of her
unfortunate lover. Her clothes were torn, and a part of
the blood which had "flown from his wound besmeared her
lovely face. The scene told all that was required to the
soldiers. They instantly seized the culprit, and, having
carried him down to the street, the mob, who, by this time,
had got possession of the whole story, and become infuriated,
inflicted on him such wounds that he died within a few hours.

The horrors of the sacking of Roxburgh have become
matter of history ; but it remains for us to chronicle the
marriage and happiness of George Belfordand Lucy Pringle.

WILSON'S

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY.

THE gloom of a boisterous winter evening was settling over
one of the wild, inhospitable tracts which lie to the north
of the St Lawrence. The earth, far as the eye could reach,
was covered, to the depth of many feet, by a continuous sheet
of frozen snow; over which the bellying clouds, heavily
charged with the materials of a fresh storm, hung in terrible
array, fold beyond fold, as they descended on every side to
mingle with the distant horizon. On the one hand, a
frozen lake, deeply buried, like all the rest of the landscape,
stretched its flat, unvaried surface for leagues along the
waste ; on the other, a winding shore, covered with stunted
trees and bushes, alternately advanced into the level, in
the form of low, long promontories, or retired into little
hollow bays, edged with rock, and overhung by thickets
of pine. All was sublimely wild and desolate. The piercing
north wind went whistling in sudden gusts along the
frozen surface of the lake, dashing against each other the
stiff, brittle branches of the underwood, and shaking off
jheir icicles, or whirling the lighter snow into huge columns,
that ever and anon went stalking along the waste like giants,
and seemed at times to thrust their foreheads into the very
clouds. Not a single human habitation — not so much as
the wigwam of an Indian, or aught that could give evi-
dence of even the occasional visits of man — could be seen
in the whole frozen circle, from the centre to the horizon.
All seemed alike uninhabitable and uninhabited — a dreary
unpeopled desert, the undisputed domain of solitude and
winter.

And yet, on this dismal evening, the landscape was en-
livened by two human figures. They were mounted on a
rude sledge, drawn by four large dogs, that now, as the
evening began to darken, were urging their way at full speed
across one of the wider bays of the lake. The keen, pene-
trating wind blew right a-head, so intensely chill that it
felt to the naked hand like a stream of ice ; and the travel-
lers, who were seated, with their backs to the blast, on the
front part of the car, and who from time to time half turned
their heads to direct the course of the dogs, drew closer and
closer together as they felt their limbs stiffening, and a
drowsy torpor stealing over all their faculties, under the
deadening influence of the cold. They were dressed from
head to foot in the skins of wild animals, with hoods, like
those worn by the Esquimaux, projecting over their faces,
and long strips of some thick, coarse fur wrapped in a spiral
fashion round their limbs. One of them — a robust, dark-
complexioned young man, rather above the middle size — had
an Indian blanket bound round his shoulders ; the other —
who, though tall and well-made, was of a rather slighter
form, and much less deeply bronzed by the climate — was
closely enveloped in the folds of a Scotch plaid.

" I am afraid, Sandy, it's all over with us," said Innes
Cameron, the fairer and handsomer of the two ; " I have
been dead asleep for the last ten minutes — ah, me ! and
dreaming of Scotland too, and of one I shall never, never
see more. Do you think there can be any chance of our
yet reaching the log-house ?"

' I have been more than half asleep too," said Sandy
J37. VOL. IIL

Munro, the more robust traveller, " and my feet are ice to
the ancles ; but, if we can hold out for barely one quarter
of an hour longer, we are safe. Pine Creek Point is quite
at hand — see how it stretches black across the snow yon-
der, not four hundred yards away ; and, hearken ! you may
hear the wind whistling through the branches. There is a
little bay beyond it, and the log-house is at the bottom of
the bay. Just strive and keep up for a few minutes
longer, Innes, and we shall get over this night with all the
rest."

The sledge reached the promontory, and entered the wood.
It was thick and dark ; and there was a rustling and crack-
ling on every side, as the dogs went bounding among the
underwood — their ears and tails erected, and opening from
time to time in quick, sharp barkings, sure indications that
they deemed themselves near the close of their journey.
The trees began to open ; and, descending an abrupt ice
declivity, the travellers found themselves on the edge of a
narrow creek, that went winding into the interior, between
steep banks laden with huge piles of snow, which, hollowed
by the blast into a thousand fantastic forms, hung bellying
over the level. A log-house, buried half-way to the eaves
in front, and overtopped by an immense wreath behind —
resembling some hapless vessel in the act of foundering —
occupied an inflection of the bank opposite the promontory;
and, in a few minutes, the travellers had crossed the creek,
and stood fronting the door.

" Ah, no kindly smoke comes frae the lum, Innes," said
Sandy, leaping out of the car ; " all dark, too, as midnight
at Yule ; but we maun just bestir ourselves and get up a
blaze. Do exert yourself, my bonny man, or we shall
perish yet. Unfasten the dogs, an' be sure you hang up
the harness out of their reach, or the puir hungry wratches
will eat it up, every snap, afore morning. Unfasten the door,
too, and get out our driest skins an' driest tinder ; and I,
meanwhile, shall provide you with brushwood enough to
keep up a bonfire till morning."

He seized an axe, and began to ply lustily among the
underwood ; while his neighbour unharnessed the dogs,
and, clearing the door, entered the log-house, which soon
began to throw up a thick steam through the snow. We .
shall take the liberty of following him. The apartment
was about ten feet square ; the walls formed of undressed
logs, and the roof of shingles. The snow peeped in a hun-
dred different places through the interstices ; and a multi
tude of huge icicles, the effects of a late partial thaw, hung
half way down from the ceiling to the floor, and now
glistened in the light as the flames rose gaily on the hearth.
The dogs were whining and pawing in a corner, impatient
for their evening repast. In a few minutes Sandy had
half-filled the apartment with brushwood, and then set him-
self to assist his companion, who seemed but indifferently
skilled in the culinary art, in preparing supper, which con-
sisted mostly of frozen fish and biscuit, relished by a dram
of excellent rum. It was soon smoking on the floor, and,
with the assistance of the dogs, soon discussed ; and the
two fur-gatherers sat indulging in the genial heat, with the
long dark evening before them, and neither of them in the
least disposed to retire to the bed of brushwood and skins
which they had formed on the floor, immediately behind them,

258

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" We are strange, changeable creatures/' said Sandy —
" the bairn sticks to us a' life lang ; an' if we dinna laugh
an' cry just in the ae breath, it's no that the feelings dinna
vary, but that the pride o' consistency winna always let us
shew what we feel. Little mair nor an hour ago we were
baith perishing in the bitter cauld, half resigned to die that
we might escape frae our misery, and noo here we are as
happy as if there were no such things as death or hardship
i' the warld. Man, what a bonny fire ! I could maist for-
get that I was a puir Hudson's- Bay fur-gatherer, an' that
kindly Scotland was four thousand miles awa."

"What," said his companion, "could have induced a
steady, sensible fellow like you, Sandy, to indenture with
the Company ? Tis easy to divine what brought most of
our comrades here — they resemble David's associates in
the cave of Adullum ; but you, who could have been neither
in debt nor distress, and who are always so much the
reverse of discontented — I could never guess what brought
you. Come, now, let us have your story ; the night is long
and tedious, and I know not how we could pass it to better
purpose."

" But I do," replied Sandy. " My story is nae story
ava. I am but a rude man amang rude men like mysel ;
but you, Innes, what could hae brought you here ? You
are a gentleman an' a scholar, though ye hae but sma'
skill, maybe, in niffering brandy an' glass beads for the
skins o' foumarts ; an' your story, no a vera gay one I
fear, will hae a' the interest o' an auld ballad. It's but
fair, however, that ye should hae mine, such as it is, first.
But draw just a wee bittie out o' the draught ; for there's
a cauld, bitter win' soughin ben frae the door — an' only hear
how the storm rages arout!"

" There's a curious prejudice," continued Sandy, " among
our country folks, an', I suppose, among the folks o' every
other country besides, against some particular handicrafts.
It's foolish in maist cases. The souters o' Selkirk were
gallant fellows; an', had a' our Scottish knights fought half as
weel at Flodden, our country would hae lost a battle less ;
an' yet you canna but ken how our auld poets, o' the time —
Dunbar, an' Kennedy, an' Davie Lindsay — ridicule the
puir souters. They say that, once on a time, the vera
deil himsel wadna keep company wi' ane o' them till he
had first got the puir man to wash himsel. Noo, the
prejudice against tailors is hardly less strong in our ain
days ; an' yet a tailor may be a stalwart fallow, an" bear
a manly heart. I'm no sure, had it no been for this preju-
dice, that I would noo hae been a fur-gatherer on the shores
o' Hudson's Bay."

" Would to Heaven," exclaimed his companion, inter-
rupting him, " that I had been bred a tailor ! I'm mis-
taken if any such prejudice would have sent me across the
Atlantic."

" We can be a' wise enough on our neebor's weaknesses,
Innes," said Sandy ; "'' but to the story."

" I come frae a sea-port town in the north o' Scotland,
no twenty miles frae Inverness, your ain bonny half
Hieland, half Lowland home. My father, who had married
late in life, was an old grey-headed man from the time I
first remember him. He had a sma' family ; an', in his
anxiety to see us a' doing for oursels, I was apprenticed to
a tailor in my tenth year. Weel do I mind wi' what a
disconsolate feeling I left the twa cows I used to herd on
a bonny brae-side speckled wi' gowans an' butter-cups, to
be crumpled down on the corner o' a board hardly bigger
than an apron, amang shreds an' patches o' a' the colours
o' the rainbow, wi' an outlook through a dusty window on
the side wa's o* an' auld warehouse. An' then my
comrades were such queer fallows, fu o' a droll, little, wee
sort o' conceit that could ride on the neck o' a new
button, an' a warld o' fashions bits o' tricks, nae thing
gae guid as the tricks o' a jackanapes, but every grain as

wicked ; an' aften hae they played them afF on the puir
simple laddie. There are nane o' oor craftsfolks, Innes,
but hae some peculiarity to mark them that grows up oot
o' their profession, an' there's sac class mair marked than
the class I belong to."

" I have read Lamb on the melancholy of tailors," said
Innes, " and remember laughing heartily at the quaint
humour of some of his remarks ; but I never wasted a
thought on the subject after laying him down."

" Ah, Lamb, wi' a' his bonny, bairn-like humour an*
simplicity," said Sandy, " is but a Cockney feelosopher after
a', an' kent naething o' the matter. Melancholy o' tailors,
forsooth ! Why, man, a Hieland tailor is aye the heartiest
cock, an' has aye the maist auld stories in the parish. But I
maun gie you the feelosophy o' the thing at some ither time.
— I got on but ill wi' my companions," continued Sandy ;
" an' the royitous laddies outside used to jibe me wi' no
being a man sax years afore I ceased being a boy. Is it
no hard that tailors should lose the reputation o' manhood
through a stupid misconception o' the sense o' an auld-
warld author? He tells us the tailor canna make a man,
just in the spirit that Burns tells us a king canna make an
honest man. An', instead o' the pith o' the remark being
brought to bear on the beau an' the coxcomb, wha never
separate the human creature frae his dress, it's brought, oot
o' sheer misapprehension, to bear against the puir artisan."

" I see, Sandy," said Innes, with a smile, " you are still
influenced by I esprit de corps. If you once get back to
Scotland, you will take to your old trade, and die a master
tailor."

" I wish to goodness I were there to try !" replied Sandy.
" But the story lags wofully. I got on as I best could —
longing sadly, i' the lang bonny days o' simmer, to be oot
amang the rocks o' the Sutors or on the sea, an' in winter,
thinking o' the Bay o' Udoll, wi' its wild ducks an' its
swans, an' o' the gran fun I could hae amang them wi' my
auld pistol — whan my master employed an auld ae-legged
sodger to work wi' him as a journeyman. He was a real
fine fellow, save that he liked the drap drink a wee owre
weel, maybe ; an' he had wandered owre half the warld.
He had been in Egypt wi' Abercromby, an' at Corunna
wi' Moore, an o'er a' Spain an' at Waterloo wi' Wellington,
an' in mony a land an* in mony a fight besides ; and noo
he had come hame wi' a snug pension, an' a budget o' first-
rate fine stories, that made the ears tingle an' the heart
beat higher, to live an* die amang his freends. Oh, the
delight I have taen in that man's company ! Why, Innes,
at pension time, though I never cared muckle for drink for
its ain sake, I have listened to his stories i' the public-
house till I have felt my head spinning round like a tap,
an' my feet hae barely saired to carry me hame. I have
charged Bonaparty's Invincibles wi' him, fifty an' fifty
times, an' helped him to carry off Moore frae beside the
thorn bush where he fell, an' scaled wi' him the breach at
St Sebastian ; an', in short, sae filled was I wi' the spirit
o' the sodger, that, had the wars no been owre, I would hae
broken my indentures, an' gane awa to break heads an' see
foreign countries. As it was, however, I learned to like
my employment ten times waur nor ever, an' to break a
head, noo an' then, amang the town prentices. Spite o'
my close, in-door employment, I had grown stalwart an
strong ; an' I mind, on ae occasion, beating twa young
fallows who had twit-ted me on being but a ninth. Weel,
the term o' my apprenticeship cam till an end at last ; an',
flinging awa my thimble wi' a jerk, and sending my needle
after it like an arrow, I determined on seeing the warld."
" My crony, the auld veteran, advised me to enter the
army I was formed baith in mind an' body, he said,
for a sodger; an' if I took but care — a thing he never
could do himsel — I micht dee a sergeant. But whatever
love I micht hae for a guid fecht, I had nane for the parade,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

259

en' my thorough dread and detestation o' the halberds o'er-
mastered ony little ambition I micht hae indulged in when
I dreamt o' a battle. I thocht o' a voyage to Greenland —
o' gangin a-sodgering wi' Lord Byron to Greece — o' emi-
grating to New South Wales or the Cape — o' turning a
farmer in the backwoods — o' indenturing for a Jamaica
overseer — o' going oot to Mexica for a miner — ay, an' o'
fifty ither plans besides— whan an adverteesement o'theHud-
son's-Bay Company caught my notice an' determined me at
once. I needa tell ye what the Directors promised to active
young men : a paradise o' a country to live in — the fun o'
hunting and fishing frae Monday to Saturday nicht for our
only wark, an' pocketfu's o' money for our pay. I blessed
my stars, an' closed wi' the agent at ance. An' noo, here I
am, Innes, in the seventh year o' my service — no that meikle
disposed to contemn my auld profession, an' mair nor half
tired o' hunting, fishing, and seeing the warld. But just
twa months mair, my boy, an' I am free. An' noo, may I
no expect your story in turn ?"

The wind, which had been rising since nightfall, now be-
gan to howl around the log-house and through the neigh-
bouring woods, like the roar of the sea in a storm. There
was an incessant creaking among the beams of the roof, and
the very floor at times seemed to rise and fall under the
foot, like the deck of a vessel, which, after having lain stranded
on the beach, has just begun to float. The storm which
had been so long impending burst out in all its fury, and
for some time the two fur-gatherers, impressed by a feeling
of natural awe, sat listening to it in silence. The sounds
rose and fell by intervals — at times sinking into a deep, sul-
len roar, when all was comparatively still around ; at times
swelling into thunder. In a pause of the blast, Sandy rose
and flung open the door. Day had sunk more than two
hours before, and there was no moon, but there was a strong
flare of greenish-coloured light on the snow that served to
discover the extreme dreariness of the scene ; and through a
bore in the far north, resembling, as Sandy said, the open-
ing of a dark lantern, he could see that, beyond the cloud,
the heavens were all a-flame with the aurora borealis. Earth
and sky seemed mingled ; the snow, loose and fluctuating,
and tossing its immense wreaths to the hurricane, resembled
the sea in a storm, when the waves run highest ; the ice,
though so deeply covered before, lay in some places dark
and bare, while in others, beneath the precipices, the drift
had accumulated over it to the depth of many fathoms.
Again the blast came roaring onwards with the fury of a
tornado, and Sandy shut and bolted the door.

" Ane o' the maist frightfu nights, Innes," he said, " I
ever saw in America. It will be weel if we're no baith
buried a hunder feet deep afore morning, wi' the log-house
for our coffin. The like happened, aboot twenty years syne,
at Badger Hollow, where twa puir cheilds were covered up
till their sculls had grown white aneath their bannets. But,
though alane an' in the desert, we're no oot o' the reach o'
Providence yet."

" Ah, no, my poor friend," said inn^s, •• L do not feel in
these days that life is highly desirable ; but nature shrinks
from dissolution, and I am still fain to live on. A poet,
Sandy, would new our situation at present with something
like complacency ; but I am afraid he would deem your
story, amusing as it is, little in keeping with the scene
around us, and a night so terrible as this. I can scarcely
ask a tailor if he remembers the little bit in ' Thalaba,' where
the cave of the Lapland sorceress is described ? The long
night of half a year has closed, and wastes of eternal snow
are stretching around; while in the midst, beside her feeble
light that seems lost in the gloom of the cavern, the sor-
ceress is seated, ever drawing out and cut from the revolv-
ing distaff the golden thread of destiny

" I mind better," replied Sandy, " Jamie Hogg's wild
Uory o' my brother craftsman, Allan Gordon an hoo he

wintered at the Pole in the cabin o' a whomilt Greenland-
man, wi' Nannie an' a rum cask for his companions. Dear
me, hoo the roarings o' the bears outside used to amaze the
puir cheild every time he was foolish enough to let himsel
grow sober ! But, Gudesake, Innes, what's that ?"

There was something sufficiently frightful in the inter-
ruption. A fearfully prolonged howl was heard outside,
mingling with the hurricane, and, in a moment after, the
snorting and pawing of some animal at the door. Sandy
snatched up his musket, hastily examined the pan, to ascer-
tain that his powder had escaped the damp, and, setting it
on full cock, pointed it to the place where the noises pro-
ceeded. Innes armed himself with a hunting spear. The
sounds were repeated, but in a less frightful tone : they were
occasioned evidently by a dog whining for admittance.
" Some puir brute," said Sandy, " who has lost his master."
And, opening the door, a large Newfoundland dog came
rushing into the hut. With more than brute sagacity, he
flung himself at the feet of the fur-gatherers, as if imploring
protection and assistance ; and then, springing up and laying
hold of the skirts of Sandy's blanket, he began to tug him
violently towards the door.

" Let us follow the animal," said Innes ; " it may be
the means of rescuing a fellow-creature from destruction ;
his master, I am convinced, is perishing in the snow."

" I shall not fail you, Innes," exclaimed Sandy ; and,
hastily wrapping their plaids around them, and snatching up
the one a loaded musket, the other a bottle of spirits, the
fur-gatherers plunged fearlessly into the storm and the
darkness.

A greenish-coloured light still glimmered faintly from the
north, through the thick drift and the falling snow, too faint
indeed to enable them to catch the outlines of surrounding
objects, but sufficient to shew them the dog moving over the
ice a few yards before them, like a little black cloud. They
followed hard in his track towards the bottom of the creek.
The steep banks on either hand contracted as they advanced,
till at length they could see their shagged summits high
above them in the darkness, and could hear the storm raging
in the pines, though it had become comparatively calm
in the shelter below. The creek at length terminated in a
semicircular recess, surrounded by a steep wall of preci-
pices. The dog bounded forward to a fissure in the rock — and
there, at the edge of a huge wreath of snow, which half shut
up the entrance, lay what seemed, in the uncertain light,
the dead body of a man. The dog howled piteously over it,
breathed hard in the face, and then looked up imploringly
to the fur-gatherers. Innes leaped over the wreath followed
by Sandy, and, on raising up the body found, though the
extremities were stiff and cold as the ice on which it lay,
that life was not yet extinct.

" Some unlucky huntsman," said Sandy; " we maun carry
him, Innes, to the log-house ; life is sweet even among the
deserts o' Hudson's Bay." The perishing hunter muttered a
few broken syllables, like a man in the confusion of a dream.

" It grows dark, Catharine," he said, " and I am sick at
heart and cold."

" Puir, puir fallow !" exclaimed Sandy — " he's thinking
o' his wife or sweetheart; but he'll no perish this time,
Innes, if we can help it. Pity, man, for the car an' dogs ;
but minutes are precious, an' we maun just lug him wi' us
as we best may." Rolling their plaids around the almost
lifeless stranger, the fur-gatherers bore him away over the
ice, the dog leaping and barking with very joy before them :
and in less than half an hour they had all reached the log-
house.

The means of restoring suspended animation with which
the casualties of so many Hudson's-Bay winters had made
Sandy well acquainted, were resorted to on this occasion with
complete success; and the stranger gradually recovered.
He proved to be one of the most trusted and influential of

260

TALES OF T1JE BORDEltS.

the Company's managers — a native of Scotland, and much
loved and respected among the inferior retainers of the
settlement, for an obliging disposition and great rectitude
of principle. He was a keen sportsman, and had left his
place- of residence in the morning, on a solitary hunting
excursion, accompanied only by his dog. But, trusting to
his youth and strength, the enthusiasm of the hunter had
drawn him mile after mile from home ; and, on the breaking
out of the storm, he had lost his way among the intermin-
able bays and creeks of the lake. On his recovery, he was
profuse in his expressions of gratitude, and meant all that
he said. He was, perhaps, not much afraid to die, he
remarked, but then he had many inducements to live,
and there were more than himself who had a stake in his
life, and who would feel grateful to his preservers.

"Compose yourself," said Innes; "you have been strangely
tried to-night, and your spirits are still much flurried. Set
yourself to sleep, for never had man more need ; and my
companion and I shall watch beside you during the night.
Remember you are our patient, and entirely under our con-
trol." The.manager good-humouredly acquiesced in the pre-
scription, and in a few minutes after was fast asleep.

" Noo, Innes," said Sandy, '• as there's to be no bed for
us to-night,- you maunna forget that you're pledged to me for
your story. Remember, my bonny man, our bargain when
ye got mine."

" I do remember," replied Innes ; " but I well know you
will be both tired and sleepy ere I have done."

" I have long had a liking for you, Sandy," continued
Innes — " I knew you from the first to be a man of a different
cast from any of our fellows ; and, ever since I saw you take
part with the poor Indian, whom the two drunken Irishmen
attempted to rob of his rum and his wife, I have wished for
your friendship. It is not good for man to be alone, and I have
been by much too solitary since I entered with the Company.
You were, when in Scotland, the victim of a silly prejudice
against an humble, but honest calling, but you could have
lived in it notwithstanding, had not a love for wandering
drawn you abroad. I, on the contrary — though, like the
hare with many friends, I was a favourite with every one —
was literally starved out of it. My father was a gentleman
farmer, not thirty miles from Inverness, whom the high war
prices of cattle and grain had raised from comparative poverty
to sudden, though short-lived affluence. No man could be
more sanguine in his hopes for his children. He had three
boys, and all of us were educated for the liberal professions,
in the full belief that we were all destined to rise in the
world, and become eminent. Alas ! my brother, the divine,
died of a broken heart, a poor overtoiled usher in an English
academy ; my brother, the doctor, perished in Greenland,
where he had gone as the surgeon of a whaler, after waiting
On for years in the hope of some better appointment ; and
here am I, a lawyer— prepared to practise, as soon as we
get courts established among the red men of Hudson's Bay.
But I anticipate. I am not sure nature ever intended that
I should stand high as a scholar ; but I was no trifler, and
so passed through the classes with tolerable eclat. I am
nof at all convinced, either, that I possess the capabilities of
a first-rate lawyer ; but I am certain I have seen men rise
in the world with not more knowledge, and with, perhaps,
even less judgment to direct it. What I chiefly wanted,
susp ct, was a genius for the knavish parts of the profession.
Will you believe me when I say I have known as much
actual crime committed in the office of a pettifogging country
lawyer as I ever saw tried in a Sheriff Court. Oh, what
finished rascality have I not seen skulking under shelter of
the statute-book ! — what remorseless blackening of char-
acter, for the sake of a paltry fee ! — what endless breaches
of pr mise ! — what shameless betrayals of trust ! — what
reckl ss waste of property ! Sandy Munro, I am a poor
Hudson's -Bay fur-gatherer, and can indulge in no other hope

than that I shall one day lay my bones at the side of some
nameless creek or jungle ; but rather that, a thousand, thou-
sand times, than affluence, and influence, and respectability-
ay, respectability — through the wretched means by which
1 have seen all these secured 1"

•' You are an honest cheild, Innes," said Sandy, grasping
him by the hand. " I have had a regard for you ever since
I first saw you ; an' the mair I ken o' you the mair my
respect rises."

" My father," continued Innes, " was respectably con-
nected ; I had a turn for dress, a tolerably genteel figure,
and was fond of female society ; and, during the four years
I served with the lawyer in Inverness, I found myself a
welcome guest in all the more respectable circles of the
place. Scarcely a tea-drinking or dancing party was got up
among the elite of the burgh, but I was sure of an invitation.
I danced, played on the flute, handed round the tea and
the sweetmeats — all par excellence — and was quite an
adept in the art of speaking a great deal without saying
anything. In short, I became a most accomplished trifler
— an effect, perhaps, of my very imperfect love of my pro-
fession. The men who rise to eminence, you know,
rarely begin their course as fine fellows ; and, were it not
for a circumstance to which I owe more of my happiness and
more of my misery than to any other, I would have had to attri-
bute my failure in life less to an untoward destiny than to the
dissipation of this period. But I was taught diligence by the
very means through which most young people are w/ztaught
it. I fell in love. There was a pretty, simple lassie, the
daughter of one of the bailies of the place, whom I used
frequently to meet with in our evening parties, and with
whose appearance I was mightily taken from the moment I
first saw her. She united, in a rare degree, all the elegance
of the young lady with all the simplicity of the child ; and,
with better sense than falls to the share of nineteen
twentieths of her sex, was more devoid than any one I ever
knew of their characteristic cunning. You have heard, I
dare say, that young ladies are anxious about getting hus-
bands ; but, trust me, it is all a mistake. The anxiety is
too natural a one to be experienced by so artificial a person-
age as the mere young lady. It is not persons but things
she longs after — settlements, not sweethearts. I have had
a hundred young-lady friends who liked my youth and
gentility, and who used to dance, and romp, and chat with
me, with all the good will possible, but who thought as
little of me as a sweetheart as if I were one of themselves.
Thoughts of that tender class were to be reserved for some
rich Indian, with a complexion the colour of a drum-head,
and a liver like a plum-pudding. This bonny lassie, how-
ever, was born — poor thing ! — with natural feelings. We
met, and learned to like one another — we sang and laughed
together — talked of scenery and the belles lettres — and, in
short, lost our hearts to one another ere we so much as
dreamed that we had hearts to lose. You must be in love,
Sandy, ere all I could tell you could give you adequate
notions of the happiness I have enjoyed with that bonny,
kind-hearted lassie. Love, I have said, taught me dili-
gence. I applied to my profession anew, determined to be
a lawyer, and the husband of Catharine. I waded through
whole tomes of black-letter statutes, studied my way over
forty folios of decisions, and did what I suppose no one
ever did before — read Grigor on the game-laws. Not half-
a-dozen practitioners in the country could draw out a deed
of settlement with equal adroitness — not one succeeded in
putting fewer double meanings into a will. My mastei
used to consult me on conveyancing ; and when, at the
expiry of my term, I left his office and set up for myself,
you will not wonder it was with the hope that my at least
average acquirements would secure for me an average por.
tion of success. You will see how that hope was realized.
" The father of my sweetheart was, as I have said, an

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

2G1

Inverness bailie ; he was extensively engaged in trade, and
all deemed him a rising man ; but the case was otherwise.
An unlucky speculation, and the unexpected failure of a
friend, involved him in ruin ; and I saw his office shut up
not three weeks after I had opened my own. A week after
brought me the intelligence of my father's death. He had
been sinking in the world for years before ; getting, much
against his will, into arrears with every one ; and now,
immediately on his death, all his effects were seized by the
laird. He was an easy-tempered, obliging man — credulous
and confiding — and hence, perhaps, his misfortunes. You
will deem me cold and selfish, Sandy, to speak in this way
of my father ; and yet, believe me, I felt as a son ought to
feel; but repeated blows have a stupifying effect, and I can
now tell you, with scarcely a twinge, of hopes blighted and
friends lost. All my hopes of rising by my profession soon
failed me. No one entered my office. Though not without
some confidence in my acquirements, as you may see, I
have ever had a sort of shamefaced bashfulness about me,
that has done me infinite harm. People were afraid to
trust their cases with one who seemed to mistrust himself
— the forward, the impudent, and the unprincipled carried
off all the employment, and I was left to starve."

" Honest, unlucky cheild !' ejaculated Sandy, with a pro-
found yawn. '> One mightguess, by the way ye bargain wi' the
Indians, that ye hae a vast deal owre little brass for makin
a fortune by the law. But what came o' your puir simple
lassie, Innes, when her father broke ?"

'f Ah, dear, good girl," replies Innes, "with all her simplicity,
she was, by much, better fitted for making her way through
the world than her lover. She was highly accomplished, drew
beautifully, read Chateaubriand in the original, and had a
pretty taste for music. Through the recommendation of
a friend, she was engaged as governess in the family of a
Highland proprietor, in which, when I left Scotland, she con-
tinued to be employed — well, I trust, for her oAvn happiness
usefully, I am sure, for others. I shall forget many things,
Sandy, ere I forget the day I passed with her on the green
top of Tomnahurich, ere we parted, as it proved, for ever.
You know that beautiful hill — the queen of all our High-
land Tomhans — with the long winding canal on the one side,
and the brattling Ness on the other, and surrounded by an
assemblage of the loveliest hills that ever dressed in purple
and blue. It was a beautiful day in early spring, an the
sun shone cheerily on a hundred white cottages at our feet,
each looking out from its own little thicket of birch and
laburnum, and on the distant town, with its smoke-wreath
resting over it, and its two old steeples rising through. The
world was busy all around us : we could see the ploughman
following his team, and the mariner warping onward his
vessel; the hum of eager occupation came swelling with the
breeze from the far-off streets — and yet there was I, a poor
supernumerary among the millions of my countrymen,
parting almost broken-hearted from her whom I loved
better than myself, just because there was no employment
for me. Oh, the agony of that parting ! But 'tis past,
Sandy, and 'tis but folly thus to recall it. No one, as I
lave already told you, ever thought of entering my office —
no one, save my landlord and the old woman with whom
I lived ; and you may believe there was little of comfort in
their visits. I was in arrears to the one for rent, and to the
other for lodging. So far was I reduced, that, in passing
through the old woman's room, I have been fain to take a
potato from off her platter, and that single potato has
formed my meal for the time. On one occasion I was for
two days together without food."

'f Goodness ! gracious !" exclaimed Sandy — (t what came o*
a' the grand freends that used to gie ye the teas and sup-
pers ? Had they nae bowels ava ?"

" I would sooner have starved, Sandy, than have made
my wants known to the best of them. But there was one

on whom I had a nearer claim, to whom I applied in vain ;
a brother of my father — a close old hunks, who, though
he had realized thousands as a ship-broker in London, had
not heart enough to part with a shilling for the benefit of
his poor nephew. But I believe the wretched man was
well-nigh as unkind to himself as he was to me, and, in the
midst of his wealth, fared nearly as ill. You are getting
sleepy, Sandy, and I daresay 'tis little wonder you should ;
but I find a melancholy satisfaction in thus retracing the
untoward events of the past, which I am certain I could
not feel, did conscience whisper that my misfortunes were
in any great degree owing to myself. Well, but to con-
clude. I became squalid and shabby; all the ladies sent me
to Coventry, and all the gentlemen spurned me as a fellow
of no spirit. I had mistaken my profession, it was said ;
and blockheads, who had been guiltless of a single new
idea all their lives long, used to repeat from one anothei
that my father, in making a wretched lawyer of me, had
spoilt a good ploughman. I could bear no longer. The
Hudson's-Bay Company had an agent, you know, at Inver-
ness. I called on him one evening after a day of fasting
and miserable low spirits — and now here I am in the se-
cond year of my service with the Company."

" But hoo, Innes, man," inquired Sandy, " could ye hae
found heart to leave Scotland, without seeing the puir
lassie, your sweetheart ? Do ye ken aught o' her noo ?"

'' Know of her !" exclaimed Innes ; " alas ! I too surely
know I have lost her. The last thing but one that I did,
ere I sailed from Stromness, was to write her, to say how
I had fallen from all my hopes regarding her, and to bid
her forget me ; the very last thing I did was to cry over
a kind, cheerful letter, which had followed me all the way
from Inverness, and in which she urged me to keep up my
heart, for that all would yet be well with us. Little did
she know, when writing it, what I was on the eve of be-
coming— a poor vagabond fur-gatherer on the wild shores
of Hudson's Bay. Dear, generous girl ! I trust she is
happy."

"May I ask," saia the manager, who, unknown to the two
fur-gatherers, had lain awake for some time, listening to
the narrative, " may I ask if you are not Innes Cameron,
late of Inverness, only surviving son of Colin Cameron of
Glendocharty, and nephew of the lately deceased Malachi
Cameron, of Upper Thames Street, London ?"

11 1 am that Innes Cameron," said the fur-gatherer ;
" and so my poor old uncle is dead ?"

" And having died intestate," continued the manager,
" you, as heir-at-law, succeed to his entire estate, personal
and real, consisting of a property of a few hundred acres
in the vicinity of Inverness, and twenty thousand pounds
vested in the three per cents. A considerable remittance from
London has been waiting you for the last month, at the
Hawk River Settlement, and, what you will deem very
handsome in the circumstances, a free discharge from the
Company for your five remaining years' servitude. I am
acting manager at the River, and to my care the whole has
been committed."

Innes seemed astounded by the intelligence ; his gayer
companion leaped up and performed a somerset on the
floor.

" Innes, Innes, Innes !" he exclaimed — " why are ye no
dancing ? — why are ye no dancing ? Did I no ken ye were
born to be a gentleman ? I maun hae a double glass to
drink luck to ye ; and I'm sure the manager winna say no.
Goodness, man, it's the best news I have heard in America
yet !"

Morning at length broke — a calm, clear morning, for the
clouds had passed away with the storm, and the travellers,
after sharing in an ample, though not very delicate repast,
prepared to set out on their journey. The dogs were
harnessed, and the car laden. The manager, who, from

202

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the fatigue and exhaustion of the previous night, still felt
indisposed, was mounted in front ; the two fur-gatherers
were lacing on their snow- shoes to follow on foot. At
length the sun rose far to the south, through a deep frosty
haze, that seemed to swaddle the horizon with a broad helt
of russet, and the travellers set out in the direction of a
distant promontory of the lake. The snow all around, the
woods that rose thick ov^r the level, the overhanging banks
of the lake, the hills in the far distance, were all bathed in
one rich glow of crimson, that more than emulated the
blush of a summer's evening at sunset ; the shadows of the
travellers, as they stretched for many fathoms across the
lake, had each a moon-like halo round the head, like the
glory in an old painting ; and the very air, laden with frost
rhime, sparkled to thesun, like the gold water of the chemist.
The scene was altogether strangely, I had almost said un-
naturally beautiful ; it was one of those which, once seen,
are never forgotten.

" You have been silent, Innes," said Sandy, "for the last
half hour, an' look as wae an' anxious as if some terrible
mischanter had befallen ye. I'll wad the best quid in my
spleuchan, ye hae been thinking about Catharine Roberts,
an' o' your chance o' finding her single. I'd advise ye, man,
just for fear o' a disappointment, to marry the manager's
sister : she's ane o' the best, bonny lassies I ever saw, an'
plays strathspeys an' pibrochs like an angel. Oh, had ye
but heard her at ' Lochaber no more,' an' the ' Flowers o'
the Forest,' ye wad hae grat like a bairn, as I did. Dear
me, but she's a fine lassie ! Had I as many thousands as ye
hae, Innes, I wad marry her mysel."

" How came you to hear her music ?" asked Innes, in a
tone that shewed he took but little interest in the query.

"Ah, there's a story belongs to that question," replied
Sandy. " It's about a month or twa mair nor a twelve-
month noo, sin' Tarn M'Intyre an' I set out frae Racoon
Settlement, on ane o' the weariest an' maist desperate
journeys I have yet taen in America. About Christmas
a huntsman, in passing the settlement, tauld us there was
to be a gran' ball on New Year's Day at the Hawk River, an'
that there were to be four Scotch lassies at it, who had come
owre the simmer afore, forbye a bonny young leddie, the
manager's sister. The river, ye ken, is no mickle aboon
twa hundred miles frae Racoon Settlement, an' Tarn M'In-
tyre an' I, who for five years hadna seen a living creature
liker a woman than an Indian squaAV, resolved on going to
the ball, to see the lassies. We yoked our sledges on a snell
frosty morning, set out across the great lake, an' reached
the log-house at Bear's Point about dark. "We got up a
rousing fire, an' drunk maybe a glass or tAva extra owre our
cracks about Scotland an' the lassies ; but I'll tak my aith
on't there was neither o' us meikle the waur. But, however
it happened, about midnight we baith awakened mair nor
half scomfisht, an' there was the roof in a bright lowe aboon
our heads. M'Intyre singed a' his whiskers an' eebrees
in getting out ; I was luckier, an' escaped wi' the loss only
o' my blanket an' our twa days' provisions. But we just
couldna help it ; an', yokia our dogs by the light o' the
burnin, off we set, weel aware that we wad baith miss
our breakfasts or we reached the Hawk River. We
travelled a that day an' a' the next night, the dogs hearty
an' strong, puir brutes, for we had been lucky enough to
get the hinder half o' a black fox in a trap — the other halt
had been eaten by the wolves ; but oursels, Innes, were like
to famish. When morning came, we were within thirty
miles o' the Hawk River. There was little wind, but the
frost burned like het iron I amna remember a sneller
morning. M'Intyre had to thaw his nose three times, an'
my chin an' ears had twice got as hard as bits o' stockfish.
We had rubbed off a' the skin in trying to mak the blood
circulate, an' baith our faces had so swelled out o' the size,
an' shape, an' colour o' humanity, that, when we reached

the settlement, we were fain to stea* mto an outside hut,
just that the lassies mightna see us. Man, but it was a sair
begeck ! The ball night came, an' we were still uglier than
ever, an' I thought I would hae gane daft wi' vexation. We
could hear the noise o' the fiddles, an* the dancin — an' that
was just a'. M'Intyre had some thoughts o' hanging
himsel oot o' spite. Just when we were at the warst, how-
ever, a genteel tap comes to the door ; an' there there was a
smart bonny lassie wi' a message to us frae her mistress,
the manager's sister. We were asked down, she said ; her
mistress, hearing o' our misluck, an' that we had baith come
frae the north country, had got up a snug little supper for
us, where there would be none to ferlie at us, an' was noo
waiting our coming. Was this no kind, Innes ? I made a
veil o' my plaid as I best could, M'Intyre muffled him-
self up in a napkin, an' aff we went to the manager's. But,

0 man ! sic kindness frae sae sweet a leddy ! She sang an'
played till us — an' weel did it set her to do baith ; an' mixed
up our toddy for us — for we were gey blate, as ye may think ;
an', on taking our leave, she shook ban's wi' us as gin we had
been her equals. I've never been fule enough to be in
love, Innes — begging your pardon for saying sae — but I feel

1 could lay down my life for that bonny lassie ony day.
Weel, but kindliness is a kindly thing !"

" What is the young lady's name ?" inquired Innes, with
some eagerness, as a sudden thought came across him.
" Her brother, I think, calls her Catharine."

" Ah, no your Catharine, though," said Sandy ; •'' the
manager's name is Pringle, ye ken, an' that's no Roberts."

" I am a fool," replied Innes, with a sigh ; " and you see
it, Sandy."

The tract pursued by the party, which had hitherto lain
along the edge of the lake, now ascended the steep wooded
bank which hung over it, and, after winding for several miles
through a series of shaggy thickets, with here and there
an intervening swamp, opened into an extensive plain. A
few straggling clumps of copsewood served to enliven the
other wise unvaried surface, and, in the far distance, there was
a range of snowy hills that seemed to rise directly over a
deep narrow valley in which the plain terminated. There
was no wind, and a column of smoke, which issued from
the centre of a distant wood, arose majestically in the clear
sunshine, till reaching a lighter stratum of air, it spread out
equally on every side, like the foliage of a stately tree.

" Some Indian settlement," said the manager. " There
is much of beauty in this wild scene, Mr Cameron — beauty
merging into the sublime ; and the poor red men, its sole
inhabitants, form exactly the sort of figures one would choose
to introduce into such a landscape. I am now much more
a lover of such scenes than before my sister joined me."

" A taste for the wild and savage seems to be an acquired
one," remarked Innes ; "a taste for the beautiful is natural.
Certainly the first comes later in life to the individual, and
it is scarcely ever found among the uneducated. One ot
the finest wild scenes in Ross-shire — a deep, rocky ravine,
overhung with wood, and with a turbulent Highland stream
roaring through it — is known by all the country-folks in the
neighbourhood by the name of the Ugly Burn."

" The remark chimes in with my experience," said the
manager. " I ever admired the beautiful ; but it was
Catharine who first taught me to admire the sublime. There
is a savagely wild scene before us, where I can now spend
whole hours in the fine summer evenings, but which I used
to regard, only a few years ago, as positively a disagreeable
one. But such scenes make ever the deepest impression,
whether the mind be cultivated or no."

" Ay, Mr Pringle," remarked Sandy ; " an' frae that I
draw my main consolation for having spent sae mony o'
my best years in gathering skins for a whcen London
merchants.'

" How ? in<iu.ired the manager.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

263

" "Why, I just find that I am to bring harne wi me recol-
lections and impressions enough to ser' me a' my life after ;
recollections o' mony a desert prairie, an' mony a fearfu
storm — o' encounters vvi' wild beasts an' wild men — o' a' that
we deem hardship noo, but which we will find it pleasure to
dwell on afterwards."

"• Thank you for the remark, Sandy !" said Innes ; " I
find I am to bring home with me something of that kind, too."
Towards the close of the day, the course of the travellers
had lain along the banks of the river ; the waters were
bound, from side to side, with a broad belt of ice, but, at
the rapids, they could hear them growling beneath, like a
wild beast in its den ; and, just as the evening was beginning
to darken, they descended into a deep hollow, surrounded by
immense precipices and overhung by trees, into the upper
part of which the stream precipitated itself in one unbroken
sheet of foam, which had resisted the extremest influence
of the frost. Innes thought he had never before seen a
scene of wilder or more savage grandeur. There was a
lofty amphitheatre of rock all around; the centre was occu-
pied by a dark mossy basin, in which the waters boiled and
bubbled as in a huge caldron ; a broad, level strip, edged
with trees and bushes, lay immediately under the precipices ;
and, directly beneath the cataract, there was a fantastic
assemblage of tall riven peaks, laden with icicles, that
seemed in the gloom a conclave of giants. A deep, gloomy
cavern, whose echoes answered incessantly to the roar of
the torrent, opened behind and under it; while, immediately
in front, there rose a large circular mound, roughened with a
multitude of lesser hillocks, and now wrapt up, like all the
rest of the landscape, in a deep covering of snow."

" 'Tis an Indian burying-place," said the manager, point-
ing to the mound; " wild and savage, you see, as the people
who have chosen it for their final resting-place. These
hillocks are sepulchral cairns. My sister spends most of her
summer evenings here — for we are now little more than a
mile from the settlement ; and she has taught me to be well
nigh as fond of it as herself. Should she die in this country,
I am pledged to lay her among the poor Indians. There
are strange stories among them of yonder cave and cataract —
the one is a place of purification, they say ; the other, a way
to the land of spirits. I am certain you will feel much
interest, Mr Cameron, in discussing with Catharine what
she terms the beginnings of mythology, as illustrated by
this place. She has naturally an original and highly vigor-
ous mind, and her father (by the way, she is but a half-sister
of mine) spared no pains in cultivating it. But now that
we have gained the ridge, yonder is the settlement ; see —
that higher light comes from Catharine's window. Trust
me, you may calculate on her warmest gratitude for what
her brother owes you."

Hawk- River Settlement is situated in the middle of a
valley, surrounded by low, swelling hills, with a river in front,
and a deep pine-wood behind. It forms a small straggling
village, composed mostly of log-houses, with a range of stone
and lime buildings — the store-places of the Company — rising
in the centre. On reaching the manager's house — a hand-
some erection of two stories — Innes and his companion were
shewn into a small, but very neat parlour. There were books,
musical instruments, and drawings. The very arrangement
of the furniture shewed the delicate and nicely-regulated
taste of an accomplished female. The shutters were fast
barred, there were candles burning on a neat mahogany
table, and the cheerful wood- fire glowed through the bars
of a grate, and threw up a broad powerful flame that, in the
intense frost, roared in the chimney.

" Ah," said Innes to the manager, "• your neat, Scotch-
looking parlour brings Scotland to my mind, and my old
evening parties ; it reminds me, too. that a dress of skins is
not quite the fittest for meeting a young lady in. Can you
not indulge me with a change of dress ?"

"Ah! how stupid I am," replied the manager, " not to have
thought of that ! Attribute it all to my eagerness to intro-
duce you to Catharine. There is a whole chestful of clothes
from London waiting you below. Come this way. We
shall join you, Sandy, in less than twenty minutes, when
Mr Cameron has made his toilet ; and Catharine, meanwhile,
will find what amusement for you she can." On their
return, Catharine and the fur-gatherer were engaged in
conversation.

She was a lady of about two and twenty ; paler of cheek
and sparer of form than she had been once ; for there was
an indescribable something in her expression that served to
tell of sufferings long endured, and exertions painfully
protracted ; but she was still eminently beautiful ; and there
was an air of mingled spirit and good-nature in the light of
her fine black eyes, and the smile that seemed lurking about
her mouth, that might well be termed fascinating. Sandy
had evidently felt its influence ere his companion entered
the room.

" And what," eagerly inquired the lady, as the manage*
opened the door, " is the name of your companion — the man
to whom, with you, my brave, warm-hearted countryman,
I owe the life of my brother ?"

" Good Heavens !" ejaculated Innes, springing forward,
" can it be possible ? — Catharine Roberts ! the best, truest,
dearest of all my friends !"

" Innes Cameron !" exclaimed Catharine. And in one
moment of intense, life-invigorating joy, whole years of
suffering were forgotten. But why lengthen a story rapidly
hastening to its conclusion, in the vain attempt to describe
what, from its very nature, must always elude description ?
Never was there a happier evening passed on the shores of
Hudson's Bay.

It has long since become a truism that, when fortune
ceases to persecute a man, his story ceases to interest. It
was certainly so with Innes Cameron and his story. Few
men could be happier than he for the two months he
remained at Hawk-River Settlement. When, however, the
ice broke up, and vessel after vessel began to arrive from
Europe, he had become happier still ; and when, about the
middle of summer, he sailed for Stromness in the good
ship Falcon, accompanied by Miss Roberts and his old
comrade, Sandy, there was yet a further accession to his
happiness. An old file of Inverness newspapers, from
which I manage to extract a good deal of amusement in
the long winter evenings — for no one writes more pleas-
ingly than Carruthers — shews me that his enjoyments
were not wholly full, until after his arrival in Scotland,
when he was married, says the paper, " at Belville Cottage,
by the Rev. Dr Rose, to the beautiful and highly accom-
plished Miss Catharine Roberts." I find, in a more recent
number of the same newspaper, a very neat description of
a masonic procession in one of our northern towns. " There
is, to a native of Scotland," says the editor, " something
very pleasing in the contemplation of a goodly assemblage
of Scotchmen, powerful in muscle and sinew — suited either
to repulse or invade — to preserve the fame of their country
or to extend it ; and this feeling was of general experience
among the people of Sutorcreek on Friday last. After the
brethren had paraded the streets, they returned to their
lodge, where dinner was prepared for them, and where,
after choosing Mr Alexander Munro, late of Hudson's Bay,
as their master for the ensuing year, they spent the even-
ing in meet cordiality." And here my story ends. The
lives of a country gentleman, of superior talent and wortn,
and a shrewd, honest mechanic — varied only by those
migrations which the Vicar of Wakefield describes — migra-
tions from the blue room to the brown, or from the work-
shop to the street — however redolent of happiness and
comfort to themselves, furnish the writer with but little
scope for either narrative or description.

204

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

THE WEDDING.

ON a certain vacation day of August — of which 1 have still a
vivid recollection — I fished in Darr Water ; and with so much
success that night had gathered over me ere I was aware. I
was at this moment fully fifteen miles from home, in a loca-
lity unmarked by one single feature of civilization ; for here
neither plough, nor sickle, nor spade had ever made an im-
pression. For anything I knew to the contrary, there was not
a human habitation nearer than ten miles. I was loaded
down to the very earth with fish, and not a little fatigued by
the forenoon's travel and sport. It behoved me, however,
at all events and risks, to set my face homewards ; and,
although I might have followed the Darr till it united
with the Clyde, and thus made my way with a certainty
home at last, yet I preferred retracing my steps, and saving
at least a dozen of miles of mountain travel. But the mist
was close and crawly, lying before me in damp, danky ob-
scurity ; and the wind, which during the day had amounted
to a breeze, was now wrapt up, and put to rest in a wet
blanket. All was still, except the voice of the plover, myre-
snipe, and peese-weep. The moss or moor, or something
partaking of the nature of both, and rightly neither, was
lone, uniform, and unmarked ; it was like sailing without
star or compass over the Pacific. Meanwhile, day — which
seemed to be desirous of accelerating its departure — disap-
peared, and I was left alone in my wilderness. I could not
even lie down to rest ; for the spongy earth gave up its
moisture in jets and squirts. I hurried on, however, fol-
lowing my breath, which smoked like a furnace amidst the
mountain mist ; and trailing my fish, in a large bag, after
me. I had killed somewhere about sixteen dozen. At last
I gained a small stream, and, as I have an instinctive liking
for all manner of streams, I was led by the ear along its
course, till I found myself in a close ravine or dell, sur-
rounded on each hand by steep, grassy ascents, scars, and
rocks. I kept by the voice of the water, which now fell
more contractedly over gullet and precipice, till at last, to
my infinite delight, I heard, or thought I heard, the bark
of a dog ; and, in a few seconds, one of these faithful ani-
mals occupied the steep above me, giving audible intima-
tion of my unlooked-for presence. The shepherd's voice
followed hard behind ; and I never was happier in my
life than on the recognition of a fellow-creature. My tale
was soon told, and as readily understood and believed. To
travel home on such a night was out of the question, so I
was conducted to the shepherd's sheiling — to that covert in
the wilderness in which there is more downright shelter, com-
fort, and happiness than in town palace? ; for comfort and
happiness are inmates of the bosom rather than of the
home.

My entrance was welcomed by the shepherd's wife and an
only daughter. There was likewise a young lad, of about
twelve years, who was the younger of two sons, the elder
being dead. Servants there were none ; for, -where all serve
themselves, there is no need of what the Americans call
" helps." Nothing could exceed the kind hospitalities of
this family — the very dogs, with a couple of young puppies,
gathered round me. They licked the wet from my legs and
clothes, and seemed sufficiently satisfied even with a look of
approbation. Mysupperwas the uncelebrated, but unequalled
Dumfriesshire feast, champit potatoes. I slept soundly till
morning ; and, after a breakfast of porridge — " Scotland's
halesome food" — and learning that the young and beautiful
w oman, the shepherd's daughter, was to be married on Satur-
day eight days — I bent my way homewards, to hear and bear
merited reproof for the anxiety which my absence (which
was, however, luckily attributed to a stolen visit to an aunt)
had occasioned.

Saturday eight days dawned, and by this time I had
resumed my fishing preceptor and companion, Willie

Herdcman, to accompany me to the mountains, thinking
to decoy him, as it were, to the neighbourhood of the
wedding, and there to treat him with a view of the happy
party and blooming bride. I kept my own secret — and we
were within a mile of the sheiling ere I disclosed it. It
was ^then about two o'clock, and, so far as we could guess,
precisely the marriage dinner hour. Willie, who was an
old soldier, had no objection to join in the merriment, nor
to drink a glass to the future happiness of the young folks.
So on we trudged, our lines rolled up, and our fishing-
wallet (for baskets we had none) properly adjusted. We soon
caught the descending stream — and, at a pretty sharp turn-
ing, came, all at once, within view of the hospitable cottage ;
but, to our surprise, there was was neither noise nor caval-
cade— all was desolation and silence around. The very
dogs rather seemed to challenge than to invite our advance,
and neither smoke nor bustle indicated any preparation.
At first I thought that I had mistaken my way, and was
upon the point of entering to ascertain the fact, when tht
shepherd presented himself in the door- way. I then could
hear the voice of mourning — " Rachel weeping" within,
and the boy lying across a half-demolished hay-rick, crying
and sobbing as if his heart would burst. The face of the
shepherd was blank and awful — it was as if by a sudden
concussion of the brain he had lost all recollection of the
past. He stood leaning against both lintels of the door,
and neither advanced nor retreated. At last, hearing the
voice of lamentation wax louder and louder behind him,
he turned suddenly round and disappeared. Impressed
with the belief that something terrible had happened, but
not knowing the nature or extent of it, I advanced to the
boy, with whom, as a fellow-fisher in the mountain streams,
I had made up an acquaintance at the former meeting, and,
taking him firmly by the shoulder, endeavoured to turn his
face towards me ; but he kept it concealed in the hay, and
refused either commiseration or comfort. The very dogs
seemed aware of the calamity, and one of them howled
mournfully from the corner of a peat-stack adjoining. At
last a woman, with whom I was totally unacquainted,
emerged from the door- way and informed us of the cause of
all this lamentation. She had been sent for as a relation from
a distance, and had only arrived a few hours before. The
particulars were as follows: — Two days previous to the
day set apart for the marriage, the young, light-hearted,
and blooming bride had been employed in building a rick
or stack of bog-hay, for winter-fodder to the cow. She was
in the act of completing the erection, and standing on the
contracted apex, when her foot slipped and she fell head
foremost, and at once dislocated her neck. Had there been
immediate medical assistance (as had been injudiciously
communicated to the family) the fatal accident might have
been remedied ; but, alas ! there wras not, and, long ere
surgical aid could be procured, the ill-fated bride had ceased
to breathe !

The first thought of the household had been directed
towards the bridegroom, who had, ever since the fatal
tidings, lost his reason and become apparently fatuous,
ever and anon insisting that the wedding should take place
' for a' that !"

We did not deem it proper, nor would it have been so,
to inflict our presence upon such a household. And for
months after, I never slept without dreaming of this inci-
dent, and of the distressed family — of whose future fortunes
I know nothing further.

WILSON'S

, (Evatu'tumarg,

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

ROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER.

THE old strength of Roseallan cannot no\v boast even a
site on the face of the earth ; for (so at least says tradition)
the waters of the Whitadder run over the place where it
reared its proud turrets. It is sad enough to look upon
the green grass, and contemplate, with a heart beating with
the feelings that respond to antiquarian reminiscences, the
velvet covering of nature spread over the place where
chivalry, love, and hospitality claimed the base-court, the
bower, and the banqueting hall; but green grass, though
long, and whistling in the winds of winter, carries not to
the sensitive mind the feeling of mournful change and
desolation suggested by the murmuring stream, as, rolling
over the site of an old castle, it speaks its eloquent anger
and triumph over the proud structures of man. So long
as there is apparent to the eye a place where the cherished
object of memory might, without violence to the ordinary
conditions of nature, have stood, the plastic Fancy asserts
instantly her constructive power, and sets before the eye of
the mind a structure that satisfies all our historical associ-
ations ; but the moment we see the favoured place occupied
by a running water, vindicating apparently a right to an
eternal and unchangeable course, the many-coloured god-
dess takes fright, and refuses to obey the behest of the will
that wishes her to compete with nature in the work of
creation. We have stated a tradition, and we do not answer
for it. There may be doubts now about the precise locality of
the old strength of Roseallan, but there are none in regard
to the fact of its last proprietor having been Sir Gilbert
Rollo, a favourite of King James Vv who saw no better
mode of rewarding his loyal subject for important services
than by giving him a grant of the castle and domains, upon
the old feudal tenure of ward-holding. This the King was
enabled to do, from the property having fallen to the crown
by the constructive rebellion of its former proprietor, whose
name we have not been able to discover. Sir Gilbert Rollo
had a wife and one daughter, the latter of whom was called
Matilda. According to the account contained in some
letters still extant in the possession of a branch of the
family, this young lady was possessed of charms of so ex-
traordinary a nature as to make her famous throughout
" broad Scotland." Having little faith in verbal descrip- <
tions as a mean of conveying to the mind of one who has not
seen the original any adequate idea of those peculiar qualities
of form, colour, proportion, and expression that go to form
what is called female beauty, we will not transcribe the
elaborate account of her perfections which we have had
the privilege of perusing. We content ourselves with
stating, what will give a far better notion of hefr excellence,
that there can,-be no doubt of the fact of her having been
famous throughout Scotland at that period as the fairest
woman in the kingdom. It has been stated that Queen
Mary shewed her picture to some of her French followers,
with a view to impress upon their minds that, beautiful as
she was, her country had produced one even transcending
her — though some have asserted that the picture which
Uung in Mary's bedroom was that of a daughter of Crighton
of Brunston. We cannot reconcile the different statements ;
138. VOL. III.

but it is enough for our purpose that Matilda Rollo was
supposed to be entitled to compete for this distinction.

Sir Gilbert and Lady Rollo were stanch Catholics of the
primary church. They gratified King James, by extending
their hatred to all those who shewed any disposition to
favour the partial Reformation effected by Henry VIII. oi
England ; whose law of the Six Articles was then a subject
of bitter contention among all parties, both in England and
Scotland. This religious prejudice was of greater import-
ance in the family of Roseallan Castle than as a mere
question of faith. It interfered with the success of asuitor for
the hand of Matilda — an English knight, of the name of Sir
Thomas Courtney. This individual, who was much famed
on the English side of the Borders for his knightly bearing,
manly proportions, and beauty of person, was ambitious of
carrying off the fairest woman of Scotland ; as well from an
ardent passion with which he was inflamed, as from the
pride of having to boast among his English compeers of
being the possessor of so inestimable a jewel as the " Rose
of Roseallan." His suit had been favoured for a time by
Matilda's father, but had been discharged as soon as it was
known that the lover of Matilda was an admirer of Henry's
new system of religious reformation. This determination
on the part of her parents was not disagreeable to the
daughter, who had never been able to see, in the proud
stateliness of the handsome Englishman, those softer qualities
which could enable him to respond to the high aspirations
and impassioned feelings of what she conceived to be
genuine romantic love.

For a considerable period, Sir Thomas naa not been a
visiter at Roseallan. He had, however, left a deputy in the
person of Bertha Maitland, who had been Matilda's nurse,
and was still retained in the family as a favoured domestic.
A favourer of the religious tenets of the new English
Reformers, she had looked favourably on the suit of the
lover; and there was reason to suppose that English gold, as
well as English principles of religion, had been employed to
gain over her interest in behalf of the Englishman. Her
efforts had been sedulously devoted to the excitement of
some feeling of attachment on the part of Matilda ; but, as
women can only excite love in their female companions by
rivalshipj her praises went for nothing more than an old
woman's garrulity. Matilda felt it impossible to give her
affections to her English suitor, and was glad to take
refuge behind the commands of her father, never to see him
and never to listen to his high-flown professions of passion.

Many other suitors sought the favour of the far-famed Rose
of Roseallan. They were of the highest of the land — many
of them the courtiers of King James ; and the rules and
canons of love-making, taken from the old romances—
" Amadis de Gaul" and others — were learned by heart, and
acted on by tongue and eyes. But all was in vain. There
was not a single individual among all those who resorted to
Roseallan, not even Sir George Douglas, (who had been
favoured by her father,) that had been able to excite the
least spark of affection in the bosom of the fair object of
their suit. The circumstance was remarkable, but not the
less true ; and the difficulty could not be solved by the
ordinary expedients. Though the most beautiful woman
in Scotland at that time, she was the humblest ; and no

266

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

rejected iover could lay bis bad fortune to the account of
pride, or solace bis self-love by an imputed arrogance of
beauty. The perfect disengagement (so far as could be
observed) of her affections, kept up the hopes of her English
admirer, who learned everything that took place at the
castle, through the medium of his hired agent. The media-
tions of Bertha were kept up ; but her praises had, by repeti-
tion, become tiresome, and fell upon the ear of her fair
mistress like the tuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to
be of the choir of the forest, chirped on the old walls of
Roseallan.

The castle was so situated that one end ot it was almost
washed by the waters of the Whitadder. A small bridge
was thrown over the river, and communicated with a deep
wood on the other side, then called the Satyr's Hall. In
this wood, and towards the end of the bridge, was a small
bower, which had been built for the sake of Matilda, and in
which she often sat during the heat of the mid-day sun,
listening to the songs of the birds, or reading some of the
old romances and ballads of Scotland, which she loved
with the devotion of the heart. It seemed to be in the
imaginary world of these narratives that she had found the
lover who defied the efforts of so many suitors to obtain a
place in her affections. Her rapt fancy, occupied in the
contemplation of some form which it had painted with all the
fond colours of exaggerated beauty, carried her away from
the ordinary thoughts and feelings of life. Yet it was not
all imagination : she did not carry her romance so far as to
uphold that no man of mere flesh and blood, however well
put together, and however well decorated by the smiles of
nature, (the artificial ornaments of fashion she valued not,)
could satisfy the heart that had enshrined within it those
hallowed images of a beautiful creative imagination. One
who knew human nature and the habits of thinking and
acting of imaginative females, would have discovered, in
this love of the fair inhabitants of her own Elysium, the
true reason of her apparent coldness towards the most
beautiful and accomplished men of her time ; but they
would have suspected that the form of beauty she thus
cherished had some foundation in nature ; and that — though
an exctted fancy engages in its service the young female
heart, and. having limned for it an ideal object to con-
template, ceases not till it engages for the image the most
pure and sometimes the strongest affections of the heart —
there is still a substratum in reality to which all may be re-
ferred. So was it with Matilda Hollo. One day, when sit-
ting in her bower, she had fallen asleep with a volume of
Italian poems in her hand. She had been busy culling
roses — the bower was strewed with them ; and the sun sent
his rays past the window and entrance of the retreat, as if
to avoid an interruption of her repose. She was, however,
interrupted by another cause ; and, looking up, she saw the
face of a man gazing steadfastly upon her through the win-
dow. Alarmed, she started up— the individual disappeared j
but the beauty of his countenance, which transcended any-
thing she had ever seen on earth, or dreamed of in the grand-
est of her rapt imaginations, left an impression on her which
she newer forgot. She was supplied with a form of beauty
on which her fancy might luxuriate, and to \vhich she would
refer all the descriptions in her favourite works ; nor did
she fail in this— for, though she could not discover who the
individual was, and uid not see him again, she cherished
the beloved image as a treasure, and, day and night, in her
fanciful musings and in her dreams, she delighted to contem-
plate the beauty of her imaginary lover.

One morning Bertha accosted her young mistress in such
a manner as to excite her curiosity.

" The cushat doesna use to coo when the owl flies," said
she. " Heard ye, my young lady, the sounds last night in
the beechwood?"

" The owl is generally busy there at night," replied Ma-

tilda. "• I went to sleep early, and never waked till morn-
ing, when I heard the wind booming like a moon-baying
spaniel through the forest. It had begun before you slept ;
but you know, Bertha, you find often a magic virtue in night
sounds that no one else has the wits to discover."

" A lover's flute has mair virtue in it for young maidens
than for auld witches," replied the other, looking knowingly.
" Sir George Douglas has tried his looks and his speech
upon you ; his success may, peradventure,be greater through
the means o' music, the lover's charm."

" I understand you not, good Bertha," replied Matilda ;
£ you do not mean to say that Sir George Douglas was bold
enough to serenade me in that house into which he might
have entered, and, by a father's authority, claimed my atten-
tion."

" If it wasna Sir George, ye can maybe tell me wha it
was," replied the old nurse, looking cunningly into the face
of Matilda.

" I can tell ye nothing, Bertha, for I heard nothing,"
said the other.

This conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance
of Lady Rollo, roused the curiosity of Matilda, who, igno-
rant of the interest felt by Bertha in the suit of the English
lover, did not observe in her words or manner any wish to
acquire information, but only a simple badinage on a sub-
ject of love. She trusted her nurse implicitly as her best
friend, and sought her counsel often in those moments of
unhappiness when her mother interrupted the imaginative
course of her life, by some effort to get her affections fixed
on a proud baron or a courtly knight. The consolations of
Bertha were ever ready ; and her innocent and unsuspicious
friend did not observe, in the nurse's zealous efforts to confirm
her against the marriage plans of her mother, the anxious
workings of the concealed and paid deputy of a lover also re-
jected. She intended to have questioned her farther about
the sounds in the wood ; but that day did not afford an
opportunity for the gratification of her wish. Left to her
own imagination, she concluded that some of her lovers had
presumed to address her after the Spanish form of the
evening serenade ; and, while she resolved upon listening
on the following evening, she was determined to take no
notice of the importunities of her impassioned lover.

The evening set in with great beauty. The full moon rose
high in the heavens, in which there was not discernible the
thinnest wreath of vapour to form a restingplace for the
eye, as it wandered among the endless regions of pure
illuminated aether. The bright queen, paramount over all,
engrossed the whole hemisphere, reducing the twinkling stars
to the dimensions of small satraps of distant provinces, whose
smallness increased the splendour of her august majesty.
The stillness of nature suggested the idea of a general worship
of the presiding genius of the night. Every wind was stilled,
and even the Whitadder seemed to glide along with a greater
smoothness than usual; while its singing, mellow voice
seemed as if it rejoiced in the bright reflection of the gay
queen of the heavens it held in its bosom. It was now
about nine o' clock. Matilda was sitting at the casement
of her apartment, overlooking the stream — her eyes were
fixed on the beautiful scene ; the towers of Roseallan threw
over a part of the river a shadow, at the farther extremity
of which, and, as it were, at the point of the eastern turret,
the round form of the moon, like a bright silver salver, lay
still in the bosom of the water. A little beyond this striking
object, stood her bower in the wood; and so bright was the
flood of light that penetrated every part of the forest, that
she saw the door and window of the romantic retreat so
perfectly that she couldhave detected theentrance of the august
Oberon, or even Piggwiggan himself, if either of them could
have left their revels on the greensward, in that auspiciou.
night, to favour her bower with a visit. The scene was s«,
inviting that she would have been tempted to wandei

ROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER.

VOL. III. P. C67.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

207

over the bridge into the wood, if the information of Bertha
had not pointed out to her the danger.

As she continued her gaze on the beautiful scene, her
attention was claimed by the form of a man gliding between
the trees in the wood. He came forward to the edge of the
river, and stood in a contemplative attitude, with his arm
resting on the branch of an old beech, and his head directed
in such a way as to suggest the idea that he was looking
towards the casement of Matilda's apartment. On seeing
him take this attitude, she retired back, to prevent her
white dress from attracting his attention. A slight examin-
ation satisfied her that he was an individual below the
rank of life in which she moved. He was of great height
and commanding aspect ; but his dress was that of the son
of a free farmer of that time, being composed of the rough
doublet, bound with a broad leather belt, and the slouched
hat, made of thick plaits of coarse straw, and ornamented
with a black ribbon tied round the junction of the rim and
the crown. Though worn by the inferior orders, the dress
was a noble one, imparting to the wearer an air of robust
strength, with that easy carelessness and rude grace which
forms the dignile of the freeborn son of the mountain. It
was only the general outline of his appearance and dress
which Matilda could thus discover through the light of the
moon ; but she saw enough to excite her attention, and she
continued to notice his motions.

The stranger stood in the same attitude of mute contem-
plation for a considerable time, his face still directed toward
the same part of the building, in spite of the powerful claims
on his eye and attention that were put forth by the splendid
scene around him with the round figure of the moon shin-
ing in the waters at his feet. At length he took his arm
from the branch of the old beech, and, turning round, slowly
directed his steps towards Matilda's wood-bower, into which
he entered, bending his tall person to enable him to get in
at the door — a circumstance that satisfied Matilda of his
great height, as her father — a very tall man — could enter
without that preliminary. All was for a time still and silent ;
the gentle rippling of the Whitadder deriving from the
absence of any other sound a distinctness which, in its
turn, added to the depth of the quiet of sleeping nature. A
soft sound began to rise in low strains of sweet music,
coming apparently from the bower. It was the voice of a
man, modulated into the tones of the pathetic expression of
heartfelt sentiment ; the air was slow, and filled with ca-
dences which brought down the voice to the lowest note ;
the words — pronounced in the low tone of the music, and
run together by the fluent character of the melody which
accompanied them — could not be distinguished ; but the
eft'ect of the plaintive sounds, co-operating with the silence
of night, and the extraordinary scene of lunar splendour
exhibited by earth and heaven, was felt by Matilda as the
nearest approximation she had yet experienced to the real-
ization of her imaginative creations. The music continued
for some time, and then ceased at the termination of one
of the deep cadences, prolonged apparently for the purpose
of expressing a finale. The individual came out of the
bower, and stood again on the side of the river — the shadow
of his tall figure fell on the ground like the reflection of the
beech on which he leant ; he continued his gaze for some
time in dead silence, and then, turning, disappeared in the
wood.

Matilda was unable, after all the consideration she could
bestow on the subject, to come to any conclusion satisfac-
tory to herself, as to either the identity* of the individual, or
the object he had in view. Duringthe night, the scene, which
had been deeply impressed on her mind, was verified by
the power of fancy; and there Avas a certain romance about
it which recommended it to her heart. In the morning
she questioned Bertha, to whom she confided her everv
secret.

"I am perplexed, Bertha," she began; "you asked me
yesterday if I had heard any sounds in the Satyr's Hall, and
I have that question now to put to you. The man that
sings in my bower must have some other object in view
than gratifying his own ears or those of the night birds
with his plaintive melody. What means it, Bertha ?
Come, my good friend, unravel the mystery, and the grate-
ful thanks of your Matilda will rewartl you."

" If the throstle hen kens nae the mottled lover that
sings to her, what other bird o' the wood can come to the
knowledge ?" answered Bertha. " I'm oAvre auld a bird to
ken noo the notes o' a lover, or to tell a moulted feather
frae the new plume ; but, as far as my auld een would
carry, your night friend looked mair curiously at the east
tower o' Iloseallan than men generally do at grey wa's
in the light o' the moon. He's as tall, at ony rate, as Sir
Thomas, and I thocht there was only ae man o' his height
in the land where he sojourns. But I think I could un-.
mask his secrecy."

Bertha looked to see the effect of her allusion to her
principal ; but she got no encouragement.

" Whoever he may be," answered Matilda, " he is a very
different kind of individual from Sir George Douglas ; nor
is it Sir Thomas Courtney. The melody is too sweet for
the execution of an English throat. He is a Scotchman ;
probably some of my Edinburgh courtly lovers, in the dis-
guise of a free son of the mountains. I cannot listen to
his strains; but you can safely approach the bower, and may,
as you yourself have proffered, ascertain for me who and
what he is."

" My young lady's wish is Bertha's command," answered
the old woman ; " watch me with your hazel eyes, over
the white bridge, this night at nine. If he comes again, he
shall not go away unknown."

When the evening came, Matilda was again at her case-
ment. The night was as beautiful as the preceding one ; but
there was a thin halo round the moon that gave her a softer
aspect ; and the diminished sound of the mellow ripple of
the Whitadder seemed to indicate that there was a zephyr
abroad whose presence could be detected only by that deli-
cate test. About the hour of nine, she saw the thin figure
of old Bertha, rolled up in a cloak, steal silently from a
postern of the east wall, and creep slowly down to the end
of the light, airy bridge that spanned, with its pure white
arms, the bosom of the river. Stretching forth her bony
hand, she seized the rail, and, having got a firm footing,
walked with slow steps along the planks. Her progress
was slow, nervous, and unsteady. Matilda was solicitous
for her safety ; for she had never seen Bertha venture
along the bridge at night, and she herself seldom crossed
it after nightfall, even with the aid of a resplendent moon.
Her attention was fixed upon her to the exclusion of all
notice of any proceedings on the other side of the stream.
The old woman had got to the middle of the bridge, and
Matilda saw with horror her supposed faithful friend fall.
Starting from her seat, she rushed down, and in an instant
was at the end of the bridge. Seizing the rail, she hurried
along, and found the body of the nurse lying extended on
the planks, apparently senseless, though she had merely
experienced an ordinary fall, the result of a stumble.
Bending down, the anxious girl was proceeding to lift her
up, when she was, in an instant, seized by the arms of a
strong man, and hurried away to the farther end of the
bridge. Stunned by this sudden seizure, succeeding as it
did the anxiety under which she laboured for her nurse,
she was unable even to scream, and lay in the arms of the
person that bore her away, helpless and nearly senseless.
When she recovered herself so far as to be conscious of her
situation, she found she was in the wood, and heard the
sound of the voices of several men, among whom she
thought she observed the disguised figure of a gentleman.

268

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

They had wrapped a large cloak rpund her, and were in
the act of putting her on the back of a jennet that stood
ready saddled and bridled, Avhen the man that held her
was struck to the ground by some one that came behind
him. He lay senseless at her feet ; a second one shared
his late in an instant ; and a third, after dealing a treacher-
ous blow on the head of her deliverer, flung himself on a
horse that stood alongside of the jennet, and galloped off
at the top of his speed. Meanwhile, she was again seized
by another man, and soon found herself reclining in her
own bower.

tf The feet o' the remaining horses," said a voice at her
feet, " are raisin the echoes o' the Satyr's Wood. The
spoilers have recovered and have fled after their master,
who is, by this time, by the side o' the Tweed. Hoo
fares Matilda Hollo ? Can it be excused by high birth
and beauty that the salvation o' their possessor frae the
arms o' an English Reformer cam frae the courage or the
good fortune o' ane that daurna lift his face to ask forgive-
ness for doin the duty o' a fellow-creature ?"

" Whoever you are," cried Matilda, as she recovered,
<f you have done little in saving me, if Bertha Maitland lies
drowned in the Whitadder : and that blood that flows down
your face may be the dear price of my safety." And she
started to her feet, as if she were to fly to save her friend.

" Content yersel. fair leddie," said the individual who
still knelt at her feet ; " my wound is sma', and as to your
auld nurse, I saw her rise without a helpin hand, and, like
the stunned bird, shake her feathers, and return to Rose-
allan wi' a steadier step than when she wiled ve owre the
bridge."

The last words were pronounced with that irresolution
which resulted from a fear of a false impeachment, and were
not heard or understood by Matilda, who, made easy on the
subject of her solicitude, now contemplated the individual
who had saved her. The blood flowed profusely over his
face,yet she could perceive that he was the same person whom
she had seen on the previous night ; and the estimate she
had then made of his character was realized. But a new
source of curiosity and interest was now opened to her. She
recognised in his countenance, which was formed after the
finest model that ever came from the pencil of Apelles or
the chisel of Praxiteles, the original of the image which she
had so often, in that bower, called up to the contemplation of
a fancy excited by the reading of "Amadis" or "Cavalcante."
She was surprised and confused ; her mind recurred back to
former times ; a floating vision crossed her fancy ; she fixed
her eyes on the beautiful, though blood-stained countenance
of her protector, and, blushing to the ears, threw them again
on the ground. Her confusion prevented her from speaking,
as well as from rising to return to the Castle ; and the doubt
which clung to her mind, whether all the extraordinary pro-
ceedings of the last ten minutes were not a dream, added
to her irresolution and increased her embarrassment. A
thought roused her suddenly to a sense of her position.
Bertha would report her danger at the castle, and her father,
with attendants, would instantly be in search of her, and in
pursuit of the fugitives. Starting up, she made confusedly
for the entrance of the bower ; but the hem of her garment
was held by her deliverer, who implored for a moment's delay.

" A second time have I been blessed," he ejaculated, as
he wiped the blood from his face " Three years have
passed sin' chance led me to look in at the window o' this
wood-bower, where, gracious heaven ! I saw the fair maiden
o' Roseallan in the beauty o* a calm sleep. On this heather-
bench, which was strewn wi' roses, her head rested : a book
had fa'en frae her left hand, and her right was spread amang
the flowing curls o' auburn hair that spread owre her neck
and bosom. She dreamed, dootless, o' some happy lover ;
for, ever and anon, the smile played on her lips, and a tear
struggled frae beneath the closed lids, and trickled down

her cheeks. The vision enchanted me — I gazed, and could
have gazed for ever. Matilda Rollo, you awoke, and saw
my face as it disappeared from the window ; but, heaven
have mercy on me ! I have never awoke frae that hour !
Wi' the might o' that enchantment, I wrestled as became an
humble admirer o' what fate had put beyond my reach —
but it was in vain, and I sought relief frae the new scenes
o' Northumberland, while my brother tended a widowed
mother. Fate has brought me again to the neighbourhood
o' Roseallan ; but duty must — ay, shall drive me again far
away."

A sudden recollection glanced on the mind of Matilda ;
she threw her eyes upon his countenance, the origin of all her
day-dreams, and quickly, and as if in terror, withdrew them.
A slight struggle released her from his gentle hold, she
sprang out of the bower, and, with trembling steps, sought
quickly the bridge, along which she hurried to the castle,
where she sought instantly the chamber of Bertha. She
found the old woman on her knees, at her evening's devotion.

" Ah ! my leddie !" ejaculated the nurse, " why did ye
leave me to seek my way back owre the brig, without the
helpin hand o' your love and assistance ? I was stunned
sair by the fa', but I heard a sound o' voices as I recovered.
I looked for you, and thought ye had returned to your apart-
ment, whar I intended to have sought ye, after offering up
my prayers to our Lady for my deliverance."

" Sore stunned you must have been, good Bertha," said
Matilda, «• when you did not see my peril. Surely it is im-
possible. Did you not see your own Matilda carried off
by men ? Yet, why do I put that question ? Surely it is
sufficient to satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible
and ignorant of my fate, when I see her occupied in prayer,
in place of rousing my father to my rescue."

" Carried awa by men, child !" ejaculated the nurse, " and
me ignorant o' the base treachery ! By'r Lady, I'm petrified !
Whar were you carried, and wha were the ruffians ? Kenned
ye ony o' them ? Doubtless, some o' our Holyrude knights
in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating heart
o' your auld freend."

Matilda took Bertha up to her chamber, and recounted
to her, in the confidence of love and friendship, all that had
occurred to her — not even excepting the interview she had
had in the wood-bower with her unknown but interesting
deliverer.

"It was indeed he," she continued, "whose angelic coun-
tenance has so long hovered over me in my hours of retire-
ment and in my dreams. He said he first saw me sleeping
in my bower, and he spoke truth ; for you must recollect.
Bertha, of my having informed you, at the time, years ago,
of my terror on awakening and finding a human countenance
staring in upon me through the window. My confusion
prevented me from recognising him ; but his countenance
had got into my mind by the power of its beauty, while my
memory sometimes let go the connection between the image
which subsequently waxed so vivid, and the occasion by
which it became a part of my thoughts. Oh, long have I
cherished it, long assumed it as the face of the beatified
hero of my histories, often limned it in air by the pregnant
pencil of my fancy, dreamed of it, and wept as the light of
day chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its
place the things of ordinary life, the countenances of the
knightly wooers of Holyrood !"

" An' wha is he," inquired Bertha, " wha thus shoves
his head into leddies' bowers, and sae timeously saves them
frae the hands o' kidnappers?"

" I know not, good Bertha," answered Matilda. " He
is humble, and knows as well as I know that he and I
never can be united. Already has duty taken him hence,
and again is he to force himself far from me. I may never
see him more. Would that I had never seen him, or were
fated to see him ever !"

TALES OF THE BORDERS

269

" Deliverer and spoiler are alike unkenned, then," said
Bertha. " Hae ye nae suspicion o' the treacherous caitives ?"
she added, looking searchingly into Matilda's face.

" None," replied the other. " I heard them not ; but,
Bertha, my best and truest friend, you must endeavour to
learn for me some intelligence of my deliverer ; for, though
he cannot ever stand in any other relation to me, I could
wish to know something of one whose image I have trea-
sured up in my heart, even as a miser does the number that
forms the index of his wealth. The widow loves the grave
of her departed husband, and bedews it with tears, and
carries away with her again the image of him she leaves to
the worms : he is to me as the entombed lover ; life and
death are not more distant than the pride of the Rollos and
the humility of the poor, but his name may become as the
graven letters of the monumental stone : I may weep over
it."

" Auld age is a puir scout, my Matilda," replied Bertha.
" Ance I have failed in my commission, and a watery grave
in the Whitadder had nearly been my reward. Tak the
advice o' eild, and seek neither his name nor nativity. The
duty ye owe to the pride and power o' the braw house o'
Roseallan must ever prevent ye frae being his wedded wife ;
and, if it is ordained that ye must forget him, ye will banish
him from your mind the mair easily that ye ken nae mair
o' him than ye do o' the bird that birrs past ye in the wood
— that it has a bonny feather in its tail."

" Ah, Bertha, that ignorance will not be to me bliss," said
Matilda, sighing ; " but, in the meantime, I must hasten to
my mother, and tell her of the danger I have escaped."

" And o' the lover that saved ye, guileless simpleton !"
said Bertha, seizing her by the arm. "The Whitadder
leads nae mair certainly to the Tweed, than will the story
o' yer danger lead to the discovery o' him ye are ashamed
to acknowledge as a lover. Darkness waukens the owl,
an' yer mystery will open the eyes o' Lady Hollo. Let
the bird sleep, or its scream will mak the wood ring."

Matilda saw, so far as she herself was concerned, the
prudence of secrecy, and was about to take leave of Bertha
for the night, when Lady Rollo entered and informed her
daughter that Sir George Douglas of Haughhead had
arrived to pay his addresses to her, and that she behoved
to be in a proper state for meeting him in the morning at
the first meal. Having delivered her command, the proud
dame retired, leaving her daughter to the many distracting
reflections suggested by all the conflicting and painful
events of the evening. She retired to her couch, where
she was to resign herself to the domination of that rapt
fancy that had so long led the train of her thoughts, and
regulated the affections of her heart. Sleep forsook her
pillow, or came only for short intervals, with the Genius of
Dreams in his train. Waking or slumbering, the image of
the unknown youth who had made such an impression
upon her heart, by the extraordinary deputed power of an
imagination ever active in painting in bright colours all his
perfections, was before her eyes. The higher these per-
fections and the brighter the beauties, the greater was the
pain and the deeper the sobs of anguish that were wrung
from her heart, by the conviction that her love was destined
only to similate the cankerworm that ''•its into the heart of
the flower and makes it perish.

Next day, she was compelled, with ner hazel eyes still
dimmed with tears, to meet Sir George Douglas, a man she
had every reason to hate, as well from his proud assump-
tion of a right to her affections, as from the mean and
inconsistent mode of mediation he resorted to, and which
she had learned from her mother that morning — by bribing
her parents with large promises of a tempting dowry.
With her feelings never kindly affected towards him, her
heart burning with the thoughts of another, and her pre-
judices excited by the information she received from her

mother, she conducted herself towards the kujght with a
hauteur that called forth his hurt pride and the indignation
of her parents. After breakfast, she retired to her apart-
ment, to feast her eyes with the vision of her bower and her
unknown lover, while her angry parents closeted themselves
for a conference on the subject of Sir George's splendid
offer, and the conduct of their daughter. Wrought up to
a pitch of excitement, by the united feelings of anger and
ambition, they came to the critical determination of sub-
mitting her entirely to the power and discretion of Douglas,
who, if he chose to wed her upon the sanction of their
consent, might, if he chose, dispense with that of the prin-
cipal party interested. The project was instantly submitted
to Douglas, a hard and unfeeling man, who, determined to
possess Matilda upon any terms, closed readily with the
offer, and a day was fixed at the end of a month for the
marriage.

These preliminaries settled, Lady Rollo repaired to
Matilda's apartment, where she found her with her head
resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the wood-bower,
where she had conjured up the beautiful image of her un-
known lover.

" Thy conduct this day, Matilda," she began, " towards
one of the gayest and richest knights of our land, the con-
fidant of King James, and our especial friend and favourite,
requireth the chastisement of the reproof of parental au-
thority; but we have witnessed too long this pride of
beauty in thee, (which disdaineth the loves of mortals, and
seduceth thee and thy heart into the airy regions of profit-
less romance,) to remain contented now with mere words of
argument, persuasion, or reproach. The day of these is
by, with the hopes of the many lovers thou hast turned away
from the gates of Roseallan ; and the time for action —
maugre thy wishes or thy prejudices — hath approached.
Sir George Douglas is destined to be thy husband, and the
day after the next feast of our church is thy appointed
bridal day, whereunto thou hadst best prepare thyself with
as much grace and favour as thou mayest be able to call up
into thy fair face."

Saying these words, Lady Rollo retired hurriedly, as if
with the view of avoiding a reply, or witnessing the sudden
effects of her announcement. The words had fallen upon
her daughter's heart like the announcement of a doom, and
closed up the fountains of her tears. She sat riveted to the
chair, incapable of speech, or even of thought. On partially
recovering her senses, she found Bertha standing before
her. Rising in a paroxysm of struggling emotion, she flung
her arms round the neck of the old nurse, and burst into a
fit of hysterical weeping. The choking sobs seemed to come
from the inmost recesses of her heart, and the burning
tears, forcing the closed issues of their fountains, flowed
down her cheeks, and dropped on the neck of her confidant.
Bertha heard the intelligence, as it was communicated in
detached syllables, in silence ; and, having placed the un-
happy maiden on her chair, sank into a train of thinking,
which her young friend attributed to a sympathetic sorrow
for her sufferings. The voice of Lady Rollo prevented the
expected consolation ; and, obeying the command of her
mistress, Bertha left the apartment, promising to return
soon again. The day passed, and Matilda, unable to join
the company in the western wing of the castle, remained in
her apartment, sunk in despondency, and at times verging
on the bleak province of despair.

Heedless of the gloom that overhung the minds of mor-
tals, the bright moon rose again in the evening with undi-
minished splendour, throwing her silver beams over the
tear-bedewed face of the sorrowful maiden, whose weeping
was increased by the contrast of nature's loveliness. She
sat again at the casement ; her eyes wandered heavily over
the scene that lay like a fair painting spread before her ;
the long, dark shadows of the wood, lying by the side of

270

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

bright, moonlit plots of greensward, with their spangles of
dew glittering like diamonds, reminded her of the checkered
scenes of life, into the depth of one of the gloomiest of
which she was now sunk ; and her pain was increased as
she felt herself, by the power of fate, contemplating again
her wood-bower, which stood fair in the broad light of the
moon. A sound struck her ears and called forth her at-
tention. It was that of a lute, and came in dying notes
from a distance in the wood. Gradually increasing in dis-
tinctness, it seemed to come nearer and nearer; and now
she recognised the air that was sung hy her preserver on
that night when she discovered him. The sound ceased
suddenly., and she saw the figure of her preserver emerge
from a thick part of the wood and pass into her hower.
The same plaintive air was again raised, and spread around
in soft mellifluous strains, suggesting the union, by some
process unknown to metaphysical analysis, of light and
sound — so connected and blended were the feelings produced
by the soft heams of the moon and the sounds of the lute.
The blessed sensation passed over her racked nerves like the
odorous incense of the altar on the excited sensibility of
the bleeding victim ; her eyes and ears were versant with
heaven, while her thoughts were claimed by the evil work-
ings of had angels ; her heart swelled with the conflicting
emotions, and a fresh burst of tears afforded her a tempor-
ary relief. Her paroxysm over, the soft sounds fell again
upon her ear. Retaining her breath to .irink deeper of the
draught, she heard the notes gradually diminishing, as if
the performer were retiring in the wood. He had left the
bower unobserved ; and the silence that now reigned around
announced that he was gone.

For seven successive nights the music in the wood-bower
had assuaged the sufferings of the respective days ; but for
three nights there had been nothing heard but the cry of
the screech owl, and the moon had been illuminating other
lands. The period of her sacrifice was drawing nearer and
nearer, and the cloud of her sorrow was gradually becoming
deeper and darker.

c* 'Tis now three nights since he was in the wood," she
said to Bertha. " My silence and inattention have but ill
repaid his services and his passion. The sound of his lute
has been to me the voice of hope breaking through the clouds
of despair. O Bertha ! my sense of duty to my parents and
the honour of the old house of Roseallan has so nearly
perished amidst this persecution, that I could now feel it no
crime to throw myself into his arms, and seek in humble
worth the protection I cannot procure in the castle of Rose-
allan's master."

" Wisely spoken, my bonny bairn," replied Bertha. " My
auld blucle boils wi' the passion o' youth, and drives frae
my heart the gratitude I owe to the proud master and mis-
tress o' Roseallan, as I witness this persecution o' the bon-
niest and the best o' Scotland's daughters. The arms o'
George Templeton, the archer, the son o' the widow of
Mosscairn, can send an arrow beyond the cast o' the best
archer o' the Borders ; and may weel defend (were he again
In health) her for whom the proudest o' Scotland's knights
would send the last ahaft into the heart o' his rival."

*f Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha?" ejaculated
Matilda, in surprise. " HOAV came you by your knowledge ?
Speak, and relieve me, that I may be certain that I know to
whom I owe my life or my honour ; and to whom I — un-
worthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I am ! — have not
yet vouchsafed one solitary look or word of thanks or gra-
titude. But what said you of his health ? He was wounded
for me — ha ! Has adverse fate another evil in store for a
daughter of affliction ?"

" For your sake, my bairn, I traced out this man," replied
the old nurse ; " but, oh, that I should hae to add anither
sorrow to the wo- worn child o' my early affection ! He is
ill. A wound he received in the wood has become, by ill

treatment and exposure, the heart o' a fever that has eaten
into the seat o' life."

' And he will die for me — killed by the second and
Severest wound, of ingratitude !" cried Matilda, starting up
in violent emotion. " With death on him, received in my
defence, has he nightly visited the bower of his ungrateful
mistress, who never, even by the movement of her evening
la.Tip, shewed that she heard his strains or understood their
meaning. That countenance, streaming with blood, yet
beautiful through his life's stream flowing for me, will
haunt me through the short span that misery may allow me.
Would to God that I had returned one token as a mark of
my gratitude, if not of my love ! Bertha, I must see this
man, who holds in his hands the issues of my destiny."

" An' ye will, guid child," answered the nurse ; " but,
should death deprive ye o' this refuge, we may think o'
some ither means o' savin ye frae this forced match wi' this
high Catholic knight o' Haughhead, wha persecuted the
Reformers as muckle as he does his lovers. Sir Thomas
Courtney — whom your father has banned frae Roseallan—
shews as muckle mercy to the Catholics as he does fair-
seeming love to his lass-lemans. But are you able to wan-
der to Mosscairn, child ?"

" A bleeding head did not keep him from my wood-
bower," replied Matilda — l< a bleeding heart shall not pre-
vent rne from seeing him before he dies."

This resolution on the part of Matilda, though it did not
meet with the entire approbation of Bertha, was adhered
to ; but no opportunity occurred for putting it into execu-
tion. Every hour, in the meantime, added to her unhappi-
ness. Sir George Douglas had returned to Edinburgh, to
make preparations for the marriage ; her mother wacched
her, to detect what she termed the trick of simulated illness ;
and her father, who \vas led by her mother, seemed deter-
mined to carry their cruel scheme into execution. Tortured
throughout the day, the moon, now late in rising, afforded
her no solace at night ; the scene from the castle was changed
from lightness to darkness ; the screeching of night birds
came, in the fitful blasts, in place of the melody of her
lover's lute ; and the dreary view called up by the power
of association, the picture of her lover lying on a death-bed,
paying, by the torture of death, the dreadful penalty of hav-
ing dared to love one above his degree.

After a suitable inspection, her mother had, as she thought,
discovered that there existed no illness about her to prevent
her from taking her usual airing, and Bertha, who had ap-
parently some purpose in view, came and urged her to
walk as far as the Monks Mound, a green hillock that stood
on the borders of the property of Roseallan. They accord-
ingly set out. The day was not propitious ; lazy clouds lay
sleeping on the sides of the hills, and wreaths of mist
floated along like shadows, assuming grotesque forms and
suggesting resemblances to aerial beings in the act of super-
intending the operations of mortals ; the wind was hushed
to the gentlest zephyr ; and the sun, obscured by the masses
of sleeping clouds, was not able even to indicate the part of
the heavens where he was. Nature, " dowie and wae,"
seemed to have shrouded herself in the pall of mourning,
and the feathered tribes, overcome by the instinctive sym-
pathy, were mute, and cowered among the branches of the
trees, as if they had borrowed the habits of the wingless,
tuneless reptiles that crawled among the rank grass that
covered the ground of the wood. The couple wandered
along slowly. Matilda resting on the arm of the nurse.
They came to the Monks' Mound and sat down. The
burying-ground of the monastery of Dominicans lay on
their right hand, and they could see the tomb-stones rearing
their grey, moss- covered heads over the turf-dike that sur-
rounded the consecrated ground.

" See ye the little thatched house at the foot o' Lincleugh
hill yonder ?" said Bertha, after some moments of solemn

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

271

silence, and holding out her shrivelled hand. " The smoki
frae its auld lum is curling among the mist clouds ; bu
there's a darker mist within, and nae sun to send a flaugh
through it."

" I see it well," replied Mat;lda, in a melancholy voice
" and, humble us it is, and gloomy as it may be in its interior
I could even seek there the peace I cannot find in the prouc
towers of Roseallan. There are no forced marriages uncle
roofs of thatch."

"Ay, but there is death in the cottage as well as ir
the bonniest ha'/' muttered Bertha, ominously.

Matilda looked into the face of her nurse, who continuec
to gaze in the direction of the cottage of Lincleugh.

•'' The mist blinds my auld een," she continued as sh
passed her hand over her eyes. " The hour is come, and ther
should be tokens o' gatherin there — yet I see naething."

Matilda looked again inquiringly into her face.

" Young een are sharp," said she again, " and now th
mist is rowin awa frae the side o' Lincleugh and breakin
into wreaths in the valley. Look again, Matilda, and tel
me what ye see."

" The removal of the mist," replied Matilda, directing
her eyes to the cottage, " has revealed a cluster of people
dressed in black standing round the door of the cottage."

" Ay, I'm right," replied Bertha, straining her eyes to
see the mourners ; ". the hour is near, and see the sextons
stand there in Death's Croft, like twa gouls, looking into the
grave they have this moment finished."

Matilda intuitively turned her eyes to the burying-
ground that went under the name of Death's Croft.

" You seem to know something more of this funeral than
we of the Castle generally learn of the fate of the distant
cottagers," said she.

" They're liftin," said the nurse, overlooking Matilda'
remark " and the train moves to Death's Croft."

" Round and round
The unseen hand
Turns the fate
O' mortal man :
A screich at birth,
A grain at even —
The flesh to earth,
The soul to heaven."

" Who is dead ?" asked Matilda, as she fixed her eyes on
the procession.

Bertha was silent. The procession reached Death's Croft,
and, in a short time, the rattling of the stones and earth on
the coffin lid was distinctly heard. Matilda shuddered as
the hollow sounds met her ear, and Bertha crooned the lines
of poetry she had already repeated. The rattling sound
ceased, and the loud clap of the spade indicated the approach-
ing termination of the work. The mourners gradually
departed, and the sextons, having finished their work,
returned to the monastery.

" Come, come, noo," said Bertha, " we've seen enough —
the flesh to earth, the soul to Heaven. A's dune — let us
return to Roseallan."

" The inhabitant of that narrow cell has the advantage of
me," muttered Matilda, sadly, as she rose to return home.
'•' The marriage with the Redeemer is not forced, and the
Union endure th for ever."

Bertha, who remained silent, hastened home, and, old as
she was, several times outwalked her weak and melancholy
companion. When they arrived, they went direct to the
apartment of Matilda, where they were met by Lady Rollo,
who congratulated her daughter upon her increasing ability
to go through, with the necessary decorum, the ceremony of
the marriage. As soon as she retired, Matilda flung herself
on her couch, and burst into tears.

" There is only one individual who can save me irom this
dreadful fate," she cried. " Bertha, it is borne in upon my

mind that I cannot endure this trial. Death or ni?.dness
will be the alternative doom of the forced bride of the knight
of Haughhead. What of George Templeton ? Did you
not promise to assist me to inquire for his health ? Were
we not to visit him when my strength permitted ? Tell me,
tell me — have you heard how he is ?"

"He is weel, my bairn," replied Bertha ; "better than
either you or me."

<( Bless you ! bless you, dear Bertha !" cried Matilda,
rising and flinging her arms round the neck of the old
woman; " then there is some chance left for me. I may
yet be saved from that dreadful doom ; I would trust to the
honour of that man who has already saved it with my life.
Ah, if he is well, I may expect again to hear these dulcet
sounds which thrill through my frame, and soften, by their
sweet tones, the grief that sits like a relentless tyrant on
my heart. When, Bertha, shall we visit him ?"

" We hae already visited him," replied the nurse, with a
strange meaning in her eye. " Diet ye no see him this
day, bairn, laid by the side o' his faither, amang the saft
mould o' Death's Croft ?"

" What mean you, Bertha?" replied Matilda. " There is a
strange light in your eye ; I never before saw your face
wear that expression. Ah ! another doom impends over
me — I see the opening cloud from which the thunder is to
burst on my poor head. Why look thus upon me, nurse ?
Is there a humour in your seriousness ? — for you laugh not.
Read the doom backwards, and do not incur from your
Matilda the imputation of inflicting a cruel torture on her
who has hung at your breast."

" It was to save pain to my beloved Matilda," replied
the nurse, with a peculiar tone, " that I led ye hame before
I told ye that the corpse ye this day saw laid in the grave,
in Death's Croft, was that o' George Templeton."

Conscious of the effect that would be produced by this
announcement, the old woman held out her arms to receive
the falling maiden. With a loud scream she fainted, and,
forcing her way through the arms of the nurse, fell on the
floor with a loud crash. The sound brought up her mother.
As Matilda recovered, she looked about her wildly ; her
eyes recoiling from the face of her mother, on which was
depicted a smile of incredulity, and seeking Bertha's, on
which she found an expression equally painful. There was
no refuge on either side; and, as the image of her dead
lover rose on her fancy, she felt, in the consciousness of
the utter ruin of all her hopes, the stinging reproof of a
tender conscience, that charged her with cruelty to the de-
voted being \vho, in defending her honour, lost his life.

" All this will not impose upon me, Matilda," said her
mother. " Thou wert well to-day, when thou didst walk
forth ; and this well-acted fit is intended to remove the
impression I entertain of your perfect ability to perform the
engagement your father and I have made for your benefit.
Mark me, maiden ! — I will not heed thee more, if thy simu-
lation were as well acted as that of the wise King of Utica."
And, saying these words, she abruptly departed, leaving
Matilda still scarcely sensible of what was going on around
her. The cruel dame called the nurse after her, and the
miserable girl was left to wrestle with her secret and
divulged griefs with the unaided powers of a mind broken
down by her accumulated misfortunes. She lay extended
on her couch ; and fancy, deriving new energies from the
impulse of feeling, became busy in the portrayment of
the form of her lover, whom she had, as she was satisfied,
killed. She recurred to the scene in the bower, with
bis beautiful countenance streaming with blood ; his visits
to her bower afterwards — when he must have been suffering
the first approaches of that disease that proved fatal to him ;
and, above all, her heartless conduct in not even con-
descending to notice this tribute of devotion in one who had
saved her life

272

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

She lay under the agony of these thoughts till it was after
nightfall, when the gloom of her mind increased as the shades
of darkness spread around her. She felt that she could
suffer the agonizing thoughts no longer, and, starting up
and throwing over her shoulders a night- cloak, she hurried
out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the
way to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there
was a hollow gousty wind blowing among the trees, and
whistling among the whins and tall grass that lay in
her path. Heedless of all obstructions, and insensible to
danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at the
side of the turf dike that surrounded the place of the dead.
Surmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among
the tombstones, starting occasionally as a gust of wind
made the long grass rustle by her side, or produced a hol-
low sound from the reverberation of some hollow cenotaph.
After considerable labour, she came to a new-made grave,
and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not an-
other equally new among the many tumuli that raised their
green bosoms around her. On a stone at the foot of the grave
she sat down, and wrapped the folds of the mantle round
her, to keep from her tender frame the chill night winds.
She rose and knelt down upon the new-made grave, the
green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot
was doubly hallowed by recollections and self-criminations,
and she could not, for a longer period than was consistent
with her safety, drag herself away from it. Throwing her-
self on the grass in a paroxysm of grief, she kissed the
sods, and, crying bitterly, rose and mournfully sought the
path that led to that home where a new misery awaited
her. She wandered slowly along ; and, as she approached
the castle, saw with dismay a light shining in her chamber.
Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would, by her
absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was
merely assumed. She stood for a moment, and paused,
irresolute how to proceed — terrified to enter the house, yet
unknowing whither to go. A. voice struck her ear — it was
that of Bertha ; and, looking round, she saw her old nurse
in close conversation with a man who had on the very
dress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to
carry her off, and who, she suspected, was no other than
Sir Thomas Courtney. What could this mean ? Was it
possible that Bertha was in the interest of the man who
had attempted to force her affections, by retaining posses-
sion of her person? The question was an extraordinary
one, and startled her. She stood and looked for a moment
The man observed her and retreated, while Bertha stealthilj
sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion increased
and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She wa
thus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead and in hi
grave, and all left "behind seemed to be against her. Ther<
appeared to be no refuge from the fate that awaited her. The
marriage day was on the wing, and would soon cast the clou(
of its dark pinion on the turrets of Roseallan. Her reliance
on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion of treach
ery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which
she suspected was a part of her scheme to get her into th
hands of the English Reformer, whose tenets, she thought
Bertha secretly favoured. Thus had she lost both frienr
and lover — the one by death, the other by infidelity ; and sh
could scarcely tell which was most painful to her — such is th
anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of friendship
Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears ; he
father was obdurate ; her lover proud, determined, and
worse than all, filled with what he called an ardent love
and which she looked upon as a loathing, ribald passion
the indications of which she would fly as she would th
embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmos
recesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears
her dry, glowing eyes looked unutterable anguish ; and
feverish heat pervaded her system, rendering her restles

•and miserable. She flung herself on her bed, where she lay
ortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother did not
again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from
shame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the
?e\v necessaries she required. The night was passed in great
anguish, and the morrow's light brought no assuagement o^
ler pain. The domestic who waited upon her, told her that
Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a party,
and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next
day- Bertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend
her ; but she would, in the meantime, supply her place. The
day passed Avith no variation ; there was no relief from the hope
of succour; and her mind, dark and foreboding, sunk into a
tate of gloomy melancholy. The night came on, and threw
the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened with the
misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she
heard the sound of a lute ; and, rising, she placed herself at
the window. The night was still, and the moon, which had
not for some time been visible, was sending forth faim
beams before she set. The scene was composed and pleasant,
and brought to her mind recollections that added to her
griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure
passing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable
her to know who it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any
mixture of colours, suggested the idea of Bertha's friend,
Sir Thomas Courtney- A new source of curiosity now
arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she thought,
a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played
by her lover. The sounds went to her heart ; but suspicion
of treachery accompanied them, and fired her with as much
anger as her gentle nature was capable of, against this new
scheme to wile her from the castle. At this moment, her
mother and father entered.

" We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover," cried
the father. " I insist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who
it is."

" I do not know, father," replied Matilda.
" Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night
when Bertha fell on the bridge ?" asked the mother.

"I never attempted to elope," answered the maiden,
weeping ; " but I was attempted to be carried off by some
one in disguise, and the man that is now in my bower may
be he, but I know not."

" Sir Thomas Courtney !" cried the mother.
The father rushed out of the room. The sounds of
voices were heard in the base-court, and that of George
Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was heard. Matilda
looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying
the body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were
brought, and some one called out the name of Templeton
the archer. Matilda flew out of the room and was in an
instant in the ballium. She looked in the face of the
wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened
his eyes and fixed them on her face, took her hand into his,
pressed it, sighed, and expired.

Some days afterwards, Matilda Hollo was led, dressed by
the hands of her mother, into the presence of the priest,
who was to unite her and Sir George Douglas. When
asked if she consented to receive the knight as her husband,
she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled ; she was
ever afterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Mail-
land, who, sitting in the wood-bower, often contemplated,
with feelings we will not attempt to describe, the unhappy
victim of her treachery.

WILSON'S

, arrafctttonarg, ann

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

TPIE FLOSHEND INN

ABOUT the middle of last century, and previous to it, the
truly national trade of carrying the pack was, as doubtless
many of our readers know, both much more general and
respectable than it now is. It did not then, by any means,
occupy the low place in the scale of traffic to which modern
pride, and perhaps modern improvement, have reduced it.
At the period to which we allude, those engaged in this
trade were, for the most part, men of good substance and
of unimpeachable character ; trustworthy, and, in their
humble sphere, highly respectable — circumstances which,
doubtless, imparted to their calling the consideration which
it then enjoyed. The reason lies on the surface : the trade
was then both a more extensive and a more important one
than it is now, and required a much greater capital ; for
there being then none of those rapid and commodious con-
veyances for transporting merchandise from place to place
which are now everywhere to be met with, the greater
part of this business was then done by the packmen, who
combined the two characters of merchants and carriers ; and
in this double capacity supplied many of the shops of
Edinburgh and Glasgow, and other large towns, with
English manufactures. Those, therefore, who would con-
ceive of the packman of old, an indifferently-clad and
equivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden box on his back,
containing his whole stock, would form a very erroneous
idea of the peripatetic merchant. Their conception would
not, in truth, represent the man at all. The packman of
yore kept two or three horses, and these he loaded with his
merchandise, to the value often of several thousand pounds ;
and thus he perambulated the country, passing between
Scotland and England, conveying the goods of the one to
the other ; and thus maintaining the commercial intercourse
of the two kingdoms.

About the year 1746, this trade had arrived at so great a
height, that the high road to England by Gretna Green
was thronged with those engaged in it, going to and return-
ing from the sister kingdom with their loaded ponies ; and
a merry and bustling time of it they kept at the Floshend
Inn. This hostelry, now extinct, was long a favourite
resort of these packmen, or pack-carriers, as they were more
generally or more properly called. It was situated on the
Scotch side of the Borders, near to Gretna Green, and was
kept by a very civil and obliging person, of the luminous
name of John Gas — a little, fat, good-humoured, landlord-
looking body, with a countenance strongly expressive of his
comfortable condition — having a capital business, and being
very much at his ease, both in mind and body. His house
was a favourite resort of the pack-carriers — and for good
reasons. It was the last inn of any note on the Scotch side,
and was, of consequence, the first they came to on re-enter-
ing their native country from their expeditions into England.
The quarters, besides, were in themselves excellent ; the
accommodations were good; and the fare abundant, reasonable,
and of the first quality — especially the liquor, that great
sine qua non of good cheer. In addition to all this, John Gas
himself was the very pink of landlords ; humorous, kind,
attentive, and obliging ; possessing that valuable qualitv of
139. VOL. III.

being able to stand almost any given quantity of drink,
which enabled him to distribute his presence and his com-
pany over any number of successive guests. Fresh as a
bedewed daisy, and steady as a wave-beaten rock, he was
always forthcoming, whatever might have been the amount
of previous duty he had performed ; and what might remain
yet to do he always overtook, and executed with credit to
himself, and satisfaction to his customers — no instance
having been known of his having been placed hors de com.
bat, either by ale-cup or brandy-bottle. With such claims
on public patronage, it was no wonder that his house
secured so large a share of the custom of the itinerant
merchants of the time ; who, so much did they appreciate
the comforts of the FJoshend Inn, and so mucli were they
alive to the merits of its host, that they would riot rest, foul
or fair, dark or light, anywhere within" ten miles of it. A
dozen of them were thus frequently assembled together at
the same time under the hospitable roof; and, being all
known to each other, they formed, on such occasions, a
merry corps — spending freely, and sitting down all together
at the same table. A more amusing or more entertaining
company could, perhaps, nowhere be found ; for they were
all shrewd, intelligent men — their profession and their
wandering lives putting them in possession of a vast store
of curious adventure and anecdote, and throwing many sights
in their way which escape the local fixtures of the human
race. Naturally of a gossiping turn, a propensity made par-
ticularly evident when they chanced to meet together in
such a way as we have described, they were in the habit
of amusing each other with narratives of what they had seen
and heard that was strange, and enlivening the evening by
merry tale and jest.

It was somewhere about the month of March in the year
1750, that a knot of these worthies, consisting of seven or
eight, was assembled in the cheerful kitchen of the Floshend
Inn — an apartment they preferred for its superior comfort, its
blazing fire, and its freedom from all restraint. Some of the
guests present on this occasion were on their way to England ;
others had just returned from it, with packs of Manchester
goods and large bales of Kendal leather. These last, and
all other descriptions of merchandise which his pack-carrier
customers brought, were stowed in a large room in the inn,
which the landlord had very judiciously and very properly
appropriated for this purpose ; while the horses that bore
them were comfortably quartered in the commodious and
well-ordered stables. They were seated on either side ol
the fire, with a small round table between them ; on which
stood a circle of glasses ; in the centre a smoking jug, whose
contents may be readily guessed; and close by the table was the
landlord, doing the honours of the occasion — that is, making
the brandy- toddy, and filling the glasses of his guests. The
master of ceremonies was in great glee, being precisely in his
element, the situation of all others in which he most de-
lighted— a bowl of good liquor before him, a set of merry good
friends around him, and the prospect of a neat, snug
reckoning in perspective. The conversation amongst the
guests was general ; but it might have been observed that
one of the party had got the ear of the landlord, and was
telling him, in an under-tone, some curious story ; for the
latter, with head inclined towards the facetious narrator,

274

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

was chuckling and smirking at every turn of the humorous
tale. At length a sudden roar of laughter at once an-
nounced its consummation, and attracted towards himself
the general attention of the company.

" Whafs that, mine host ?" was an inquiry put hy three or
four at once. " Something guid, 1 warrant ; for that was a
hearty ane." The speaker meant Mr Gas's laugh. " "What
was't ?"

" It's a story," replied he — the tears still standing in his
eyes — " that Andrew, here, has heen telling me, ahoot the
minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass — -and a very
guid ane it is. Andrew, will I tell it ?" he added, turning
round to the person who had told him the story.

" Surely, surely," replied Andrew ; " let it gang to the
general guid."

"Aweel, friends," said mine host, now confronting his
auditors, " the minister o' Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is,
though a clergyman, a droll sort o' body, and very fond o'
a curious story, and still fonder o' a guid joke — and no a whit
the waur is he o' that ; for he is a guid, worthy man, as I
mysel ken. The minister had a servant lass they ca'ed
Jenny Waterstone — a young, guid-lookin, decent, active
quean ; and she had a sweetheart o' the name o' David
Widrow — a neighbouring ploughman lad, a very decent
cheild in his way — wha used to come skulkin aboot the
manse at nights, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny, with-
oot ony objection on the pairt o' the minister, wha believed
it to be, as it really was, an honourable courtship on baith
sides. Ae nicht, being later in his garden than usual —
indeed, until it got pretty dark — the minister's attention was
suddenly attracted by a loud whisperin on the ither side o'
the garden wa', just opposite to where he stood. He listened
a moment, an' soon discovered that the whisperers were
David Widrow an' his servant, an' overheard, as the nicht
was uncommonly lown, the following conversation between
the lovin pair : —

' I fear, Jenny,' said David, * that the minister winna
be owre weel pleased to see me coniin sae often aboot the
hoose/

' I dinna think he'll be ill pleased/ replied Jenny.
' He's no ane o' that kind.'

' Still,' said David, ' I had better let the nicht fa', noo
an' then, before I come ; and then he'll no see me mair than
four times a-week or sae. He canna count that bein very
troublesome.'

' Just as ye like, David,' said she.

' But hoo am I to let ye ken I'm here ?' inquired the
lover.

' Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen window, an' I'll
come oot to ye,' replied the girl.

• Very weel,' said David ; ' I'll come and rap at the
back window the morn's nicht.'

' Do sae/ replied she ; ' an', if I canna get oot to ye at
the moment, just step into the barn till I come. I'll leave
the door open for ye.'

This matter arranged, the lovers parted, little, suspect-
ing who had overheard them ; and the minister went into
the house. On the following evening, a little after dark,
the doctor, closely wrapped up in a plaid belonging to his
serving man, slipped oot, an', stealin up behind the hoose
till he cam to the kitchen window, gave the preconcerted
signal, by gently tapping on it with his fingers. Jenny,
who was employed at the moment in bottlin off a sma'
cask o' choice strong ale for his ain particular use, im-
mediately answered the ca', raised the window, an' put oot
her head.

' Is that you, David ?' said she.

' Yes/ said the minister, in a whisper so gentle as to pre-
vent her recognising his voice.

' I canna get to ye at present/ said Jenny ; ' for I'm en-
gaged bottlin some ale, an' maun put it a' past before I

gang oot ; the minister's waitin till I tak it up the stair ;
but love rnaks clever hands, as they say, an' I'll gie ye
something to keep ye frae weary in, in the meantime, till I
come.' Say in this, she handed him oot a bottle o the ale,
an' a basket, containin some cakes an' cheese. ' Now,'
said she, ' tak thae awa to the barn wi' ye, David, an' tak
a bite an' a soup till I come.' And she drew down the
window and resumed her work. The minister, without
sayin a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed it in a dark
corner at a little distance. In a short time he again re-
turned to the window, an' again rapped. The window was
promptly thrown up, an' Jenny's head thrust oot.

' Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny ?' said the minister,
speaking as low as before, and disguising his voice as well
as he could.

' Anither bottle, David !' exclaimed Jenny, in surprise.
" Gude save us frae a' evil ! hae ye finished a hail bottle
already ? My troth, that's clever wark ! But I canna gi<>
ye anither the nicht, David. It's a' put past. Besides, yo
hae aneuch for ae nicht.'

' Weel, weel/ said the minister ; ' come oot as sune as
ye can, Jenny.' And he again slippit awa.

Thinkin, noo, that he couldna carry the joke farther wi'
safety, as there was great risk o' the real David appearin,
the minister slippit into the house, threw off his plaid, and
went to a little back window that was immediately over the
kitchen one, from which he could, by a little cautious
management, both see and overhear, unobserved, all that
should pass between Jenny and her lover, when he came on
the stage. Nor had he to wait long for this. In a few
minutes after he had taken his station, he saw David come
round the corner of the house, and steal, with cautious
steps, towards the kitchen window. He rapped. The
window was raised ; but evidently wi' some impatience.

' Gude bless me, Davie ! are ye there again already r
said Jenny, somewhat testily. ' Dear me, man, can ye no
hae patience a bit ? I'll come to ye immediately.' And,
without waitin for any answer, she again banged down the
window.

David was confounded at this treatment ; but, as Jenny
had gien him nae time to mak ony remark for her edifi-
cation, he made one or two for his ain.

' Here again !' he said, muttering to himself — ' here
already ! Can I no hae patience !" Then, after a pause—
' AVhat does the woman mean ? What can she mean ?'

This was a question, however, which Jenny herself only
could explain, and for this explanation David had to wait
with what patience he could conveniently spare. But he
certainly hadna to tarry lang ; for, in twa or three minutes
after, a soft, low voice was heard saying —

' Whar are ye, David ?'

* Here/ quoth David, in the same cautious voice.

' Dear me, man/ said Jenny, ' what was a' yer hurry ?
I'm sure ae rap at the window was as guid as twenty.
Ye micht hae been sure I wad come to ye as sune as I
could.'

' Hurry, Jenny ! What do ye mean ? I was only ance
at the window/ replied David. ' Ye surely canna ca' that
impatience.'

' Ye're fou, Davie — that's plain/ said Jenny. ' The
bottle o' ale has gane to yer head, and ye've forgotten. Nae
wonder ; it wasna sma' beer, I warrant ye, but real double
stoot. Catch the minister drinkin onything else ! Thae
black-coats ken what's guid for them.' And, without
waitin for ony answer, she proceeded : — ' But whar hae ye
left the basket, Davie ? Is't in the barn ?'

' Jenny/ said David — now perfectly bewildered by all
this, to him, wholly incomprehensible raving — fye say
I'm fou ; but, if I'm no greatly wistaen, ye're the fouest o'
the twa.' And he peered into her face to see how far
appearances would confirm his conjectures.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

275

' Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk !' said Jenny, pushing him
good-naturedly from her. < Ye're just as fou's the Baltic —
that's plain. But tell me, man, whar ye put the basket ; for
it may be missed. I houp ye haena forgotten that too?'

' Jenny/ replied David, now somewhat mair sincerely,
' will ye tell me at ance what ye mean ? What bottles o'
ale and baskets are ye speakin aboot ?'

' Ha ! ha ! Like as ye dinna ken !' said Jenny, looking
archly, and giving her lover another push. ' That's a guid
ane ! To drink my ale, and eat my bread and cheese, and
then deny it!'

I leave you, guid freends, (said the narrator here,) to
conjecture what were David's feelings, and to conceive
What were his looks, while Jenny was thus charging him
with ingratitude. I'll no attempt a description o' them. A'
this time the minister was lookin owre his window, richt
abune the lovers, and heard every word o' what they said ;
but he keepit quiet till the argument should come to a
crisis. In the meantime the conversation between the
lovers proceeded.

' Jenny.' said David, in reply to her last remark, ' ye're
either daft or fou — and that's the end o't. Sae let us speak
aboot something else if ye can.'

' Do ye mean to say, David,' replied Jenny — now getting
somewhat serious too, and a little surprised, in her turn, at
seeing the perfect composure of her lover, and the utter
unconsciousness expressed on his countenance — ' do ye
mean to say that I didna gie ye a bottle o' ale and a basket
o' bread and cheese oot o' the window there, aboot a quarter
o an hour syne ?'

' Never saw them, nor heard o' them/ replied David,
with great coolness.

' Ta ! nonsense, man !' said Jenny, with impatient cre-
dulity. ' And did ye no come and seek anither ? and did ye
no come three or four times to the window7?'

' Naething o' the kind/ replied David, briefly, but with
the same calmness and composure as before. ' I never got
a bottle o' ale an' a basket o' bread frae ye oot o' that
window ; I never sought anither frae ye ; and I hae been
only ance at that window this blessed nicht.'

There was nae resisting belief to a disclaimer sae coolly,
sae calmly, and sae pointedly made ; and Jenny acknow-
ledged this by immediately exclaiming, in the utmost dis-
may and alarm —

' Lord preserve me, then ! wha was't that got them, and
whar are they ?'

Her queries were instantly answered.

' It was me that got them, Jenny ; and they're owre in
yon corner yonder/ said the minister, in a loud whisper,
and now thrusting his head oot o' the window.

Jenny looked up for an instant in horror, uttered a
loud scream, and fled. David looked up, too, for a second,
and then set after her as fast as he could birr ; leavin the
facetious, but worthy minister in convulsions o' laughter.

And that, my freends, (here said the merry landlord,)
is the story o' the minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant
lass, as tauld to me by my guid freen, Andrew, here" — lay-
ing his hand kindly on the shoulder of the person he alluded
to. The narrator was rewarded for his story, or rather for
his manner of telling it — for in this art he excelled — by a
continued roar of laughter from his auditory. "When this
had subsided —

" Come now," he said, " put in yer glasses. The best
story 's no the waur o' a weetin. It looks as weel again
through a glass o' toddy."

The invitation thus humorously given was at once obeyed.
In a twinkling a circle of empty glasses, like a garde du
corps, surrounded the bowl, and were soon replenished, with
a dexterity and skill which long practice alone could have
given the artist. His well-practised hand and arm skimmed
the ponderous vessel as lightly over the glasses as if it had

been a cream-pot ; filling each of the latter as it went along
to exactly the same height — not a drop in or over — with a
precision that was truly beautiful to behold.

The glasses, which had been thus scientifically filled, having
been again emptied, the landlord suddenly fixed his look
on another of his guests, who was sitting up in one of the
furthest corners, by the fireside, and to whom his attention
had been directed by observing him musing and smiling nt.
intervals, as if tickled by the suggestions of his imagination.
He rightly took them for symptoms of a story, and acted
upon this impression.

" James," he said, addressing the person alluded to, who
was at the moment gaz;ng abstractedly on the fire, " if I'm
no mistaen, ye hae something to tell that micht amuse us.
Ye're lookin like it, at ony rate, if that smirk at the corner
o' yer mouth has ony intelligence in't."

James turned round, and, with a smile that was gradually
acquiring breadth, said that he was " thinkin aboot Tarn
Brodie and the kirn."

" I was sure o't/' exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly.
" What aboot Tarn and the kirn, James ?"

" There's little in't," replied the other ; " but I'll tell it
for the guid o' the company." And he immediately went on.
" I dare say the maist o' ye here ken Tarn Brodie o' the
Broomhouse ; and them that dinna may noo learn that he's
a sma' farmer, as weel as unco sma' man, in a certain part
o' Annandale. He is in but very indifferent circumstances,
and has, on the whole, a sair struggle wi' the world ; but
this is no to hinder him, as hoo should it, frae haein a maist
extraordinar fondness for cream ; but it ought to hinder
him frae takin every opportunity, which he does, o' his
wife's bein oot o' the way, to steal frae his ain kirn, to the
serious detriment o' his ain interest. His wife entertains
the same opinion ; for she's obliged to watch him like a cat ;
and, when she does catch him at the forbidden vessel, or
discovers that he has been there — which she often does, by
the ring aboot his mouth, when she has come so suddenly
on him as no to gie him time to remove the evidence — she
does pepper him sweetly wi' the first thing that comes to
her haun ; for she's a trimmer, though a weel-behaved,
hard-working woman. A' her watchfu'ness, however, and
a' the wappins she could gie her husband, could neither
cure him o' his propensity, nor prevent him indulging it
whenever he thought he could do it withoot bein detected.

It happened ae day, that Mrs Brodie had some errand to
a neighbouring farm-house, which she behoved to execute
personally. Having dressed herself a little better than
ordinary for this purpose, she cam to her husband, who
was at the moment delvin in the kailyard behind the house,
told him where she was gaun, and desired him to look after
the weans till her return. This task, Tam, of course,
readily undertook, and continued to delve awa as com-
posedly as if his wife's proposed absence had suggested no
other idea to him. He, in short, looked as innocent of a
sinister purpose as a man could do ; although at ^that very
moment the cunnin little rascal's mind was fu' o' the idea
o' makin a dive at the kirn, the moment his wife's back
was turned. And he soon made these evil intentions
manifest enough. While his wife was speakin to him,
leavin the bairns in his charge, Tam never raised his
head, but continued delvin awa wi' great assiduity. He
was, in fact, afraid to lift his head, for fear that his wife
should discover his joy on his countenance, and tak some
means o' bafflin his designs. Although, however, he didna
raise his head while she was speakin to him, he did it the
instant she left him. While continuin bent as if in the act o'
workin, he looked after her till she disappeared down a
brae, at the distance o' aboot a hundred yards, when he
stood erect, stuck his spade in the ground, and went wi
deliberate step into the hoose. This deliberation, however,
did not proceed so much from a consciousness of security

276

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

as to prevent exciting the suspicion o' his ain weans, whom
he did not wish to trust with the secret o' his intended
depredations on the kirn, for fear they should tell their
mother, as, had they known it, they certainly would — per-
haps not deliberately, but they would blab it. This risk,
therefore, he resolved not to run. On entering the kitchen
whar the weans war, to the number o' three or four —

' What keeps ye a' in the hoose sic a nice bonny day as
this ?' said he ; ' awa and play yersels in the yard for a wee ;
and, as I'm wearied and gaun to rest mysel, ye can come
and tell me whan ye see yer mither comin. Ye can see
her, ye ken, frae the tap o' the yard a lang way aff. Noo/
he said, addressin the last o' the urchins, as they scampered
oot, in obedience to their father's commands, ' noo, mind
and let me ken the moment your mother comes in sight.'
The boy promised, and rushed out after his brothers and
sisters. The coast was now clear ; Tarn's progress thus far
was triumphant. He had never had before sae fair a field
for operations, and he felt all the satisfaction that his happy
situation was capable of affording.

Havin got the weans oot, he advanced to the door, shut
it, and, to prevent any unseasonable intrusion, locked it — at
least he thocht he had done so, but the bolt had missed. Un-
aware of this circumstance, he proceeded to bis operations
with a feeling of perfect security, Having gone into the room
where the kirn was, he lifted the large stone by which the
lid was kept down and placed it on the floor. This done, he
lifted the lid itself, and next the clean white cloth which is
usually thrown first on the mouth of the vessel. These all
removed, the glorious substance appeared — thick, rich, and
yellow. The glutton gazed on it a moment with a rapturous
eye ; but there was no time to be lost. lie had provided
himself with a small tin jug. This he now dipped into the
delicious semi-fluid mass, raised it to his lips, and quaffed
it off as fast as its consistency would admit. Again he
dipped and again he swilled ; and, to make everything as
comfortable as possible, he next drew a chair to the kirn,
sat down on it, stretched out his legs, and in this luxurious
and deliberate attitude proceeded with his debauch. While
in the act of pouring down his throat the fifth or sixth jug,
with his head thrown back, his eye — though half closed, from
an overpowering sense of enjoyment — caught a glimpse of a
castle o' cakes and a plate filled wi rolls o' fresh butter, that
stood on the upper shelf of a cupboard fastened high upon the
wa' in ane o' the corners o' the apartment. The sight was
tempting ; for he felt at that moment somewhat hungry, and
he thocht, besides, the cakes and butter would eat delight-
fully wi' the cream — and there is little doot they would.
Filled wi' this new idea, he rose frae his chair, and approached
the cupboard wi' the intention o' sackin it ; but it was owre
high for him. (He was a very little man.) This however, he was
perfectly aware o'. So he took a stool in his hand, placed it,
and mounted ; but was still several inches from the mark.
Finding this, he descended, put another stool on the top
o' the first, and, on again mounting, found himself just barely
within reach o' the prize. By seizing, however, a fast hold
o' ane o' the shelves o' the cupboard by one hand, he found he
could raise himsel up sufficiently high to accomplish the
purposed robbery wi' the ither. Discovering this, he grasped
the shelf, and was just in the act o' raisin himsel up by its
means, when the stool on which he was standin (he had stood
owre near the end o't) suddenly canted up and left him sus-
pended to the cupboard shelf ; for he held on like grim death,
kickin and spurrin awa in a vain attempt to recover his footin.
This was a state o' things that couldna continue long ; either he
must come doon himsel, or the cupboard must come doon
alang wi' him — and the latter was the upshot. Down came
the cupboard ; wi' everything that was in it — and it was filled
wi' cheenyand crystal — smash on the floor wi' a dreadfu crash,
and Tarn below it. There wasna a hail glass, cup, or plate
left ; and the rows o' butter were rollin in a' directions through

the floor. Here was a pretty business ; and the puir culprit
knew it. Cantin away the cupboard frae aboon him, he
slowly rose (for he was not at all much hurt) to his feet,
infinitely mair distressed wi' fear for his wife's vengeance
than wi' regret for his ain loss. At this instant — that is,
just as he had gained his feet and was lookin ruefully down
on the wreck he had occasioned — ane o' his bairns cam runnin
to the door, and bawled out the delightful intelligence —

' Faither, my mother's comin !'

The horrible announcement roused him from his reve-
rie and instantly put him on the alert. He had pre-
sence o' mind eneuch left to recollect that the cupboard
wasna a' he had to answer for. There was the kirn, which,
in its present denuded state, told an ugly tale. He flew to
remedy this. He snatched up the towel, spread it over the
mouth o't, lifted the huge stone with which all had been
secured, dashed it down — on what ? on the lid ? No, in his
hurry and confusion he forgot the lid. On the towel — and
down went towel and stone into the kirn, and the latter with
such force as fairly knocked out the bottom, and sent the
whole contents streamin owre the floor. At this particularly
felicitous moment, his wife entered the outer door, when the
first thing she met was the colly dog wi' a row o' the fresh
butter in his mouth. In ordinary circumstances, this wad
hae been a provokin aneuch sicht to her, but a glimpse at the
same instant o' the dreadfu ruin within made it appear but a
sma' matter indeed. On enterin on the scene o* devastation she
fand the culprit standing almost senseless and speechless wi'
terror and horror, and every other stupifyin feeling that can
be named, in the middle o' the ruins he had created, and up
to the shoe -mouth in cream.

' An awfu business this, Maggy,' he said, in a sepulchral
voice. It was a' he got leave to say ; for, in the next moment,
he was felled wi' the stroke o' a besom; and when he re-
sumed his feet, which he did almost instantly, he took to his
heels, and didna venture name again till wife and weans
were a' lang in their beds. Tarn neer touched the kirn after
this.

" And here," said the narrator, " ends my story o' Tain
Brodie and the kirn."

" An' a very guid ane it is," rejoined the landlord, taking
off a cold half glass of punch that stood before him. ' I ken
Tarn o' the Broomhouse as weel as I ken ony ane here,
and it's just as like him as can be. William," added mine
host, now turning and addressing another member of the
company — a quiet, mild-looking man, whom one could not
a priori, have suspected of being a joker — "that's nearly as
guid a ane as the Blue Bonnet. Do ye mind that story ?"
William shook his head and smiled.

" I mind it weel aneuch," he replied ; " but it was rather a
serious affair — at least it micht hae been sae, and I'm no fond
o' recollectin 't.

" Nonsense, man ; nae harm cam o't," said the other ; C4and
it was harmlessly meant."

" But it micht hae been a bad business," said William.

" But it tvasna," said mine host ; " and, as I dinna believe
there's ane here that ever heard the story, I wish ye wad let
me tell it."

" It's no worth tellin," said the other.

" I'll tak my chance o' that," replied the landlord ; " if it's
counted worthless, I'll tak the wyte o't. Do ye gie me leave ?"

" A wilfu man maun hae his ain way — do as you like,"
rejoined William Brydon, affecting a chariness he did not
altogether feel.

Thus regularly licensed, the narrator began :—

" About twa or three years syne, there used to come
about this house o' mine a wee bit whupper-snapper body o'
an English bagman. An impudent, upsettin brat he was,
although no muckle higher than that table. The favourite
theme o' this wee ill-tongued rascal — for he had a vile ane —
was abusin Scotland, an' a' that war in't, for a parcel o

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

277

aneakin, hungry, beggarly loons. This was his constant talk
wherever he was, and whoever he might be amang. I did-
na mind him mysel ; for the cratur wasna a bad customer,
and he was, besides, such a wretched-lookin body — I mean as
to size and figure, for he was aye weel aneuch put on —
that puttin a haun to him was oot o' the question. Ye
couldna hae blawn upon him, but ye wad hae been in for
murder, or culpable homicide at the very least. But, although
I keepit a calm sough wi' him, and didna mind his abusive
jabberin, it wasna sae wi' everybody ; and there was nane
bore it waur than oor freend William Brydon here, wha aften
forgethered wi' him in this hoose. William couldna endure
the cratur, and mony a sair wrangle they had wi' the tongue ;
but the Englishman's was by far the glibbest, though Wil-
liam's was the weightier. It chanced that William and the
little gabby Englishman met here, both on their way to
England, ae day sune after the execution o' the rebels in
Carlisle — a time whan the Scots, as ye a' dootlessken, Avar in
unco bad odour throughoot a' England, and especially in
Carlisle, whar the feelin ran sae high that no person wearin
ony piece o' dress which smelt in the least o' Scotland was
safe in the streets. And wha was sae vindictive against the
rascally rebels, as heca'ed them, as oor wee bagman? 'Headin
and hangin's owre guid for the villains,' he wad say. ' They
should be roasted before a slow fire, like sae mony shouthers
o' mutton.' Oh, he had a bitter spite at them ! It was aboot
this time, as I said, that he and oor freend here met in my
hoose — and, as usual, they had a tremendous yokin ; but it
was, on this occasion, a' aboot the rebels ; for this was the
thing uppermost in the wee bagman's mind at the time. It
was a grand catch for him, and he made the maist o't. In
short, a' his abuse now took this particular direction.

Notwithstanding William and the bagman's constant
quarrelin, and their mutual dislike o' each ither, they aye
drank thegither whan they met, and whiles took guid scours
o't, and Jang sederunts ; but it wasna for love, ye'll readily
believe, they sat thegither : na, na, it was for the purpose
o' gettin a guid \vorryin at ane anither ; so that they may-
be said to hae sought each ither's company oot o' a kind o'
lovin hatred to ane anither. In the afternoon o' which I'm
speakin, the twa, as usual, drank and quarreled ; but I was
surprised to find, towards the end o' their sederunt, that oor
freend here, instead o' gettin angrier, as he used to do, as the
contest drew towards a close, grew aye the calmer ; and,
what astonished me still mair, suddenly shewed a strong
disposition to curry favour with his antagonist, and actually
so far succeeded, by dint o' soothin words, as to induce the
bagman to extend the hand o' friendship and good fellowship
to him — swearing that William was, after all, a devilish good
fellow, for a Scotchman. The bagman, however, was by this
time, pretty weel on by the head ; and this micht hae had
some share in producing this new-born kindness for the
Scotchman. However this may be, being both anxious to
get on to Carlisle that night, they agreed — such good freends
had they thus suddenly become — to travel together. This
settled, their horses were brought to the door. William's
packs had been sent on before, and he had hired ane o' my
horses to carry him into Carlisle. Just as they were gaun oot
the passage there, to the door to mount, William hings back a
bit, lettin the bagman gang on before him, and whispers into
my ear —

' I'll play that pockpuddin a pliskie yet. Hae ye such a
thing as an auld broad bonnet aboot ye, that ye could lend
me ?' Little dreamm what he was gaun to do with it, I
replied I had ; and runnin into the kitchen here, I took down
frae a nail ane that I used to wear when gaun aboot the
garden, and gave it to him. - William took it, rowed it
up, and thrust it in his pocket, without sayin a word, arid, in
three minutes after, the twa war aif.

On arrivin within aboot a mile o' Carlisle, Willie proposed
to the bagman that they should go into a public-house that

was on the road-side, and hae something before they entered
the toon, as they required to part a wee on this side o't —
William having, he said, some sma' business to do aff the road,
To this proposal the Englishman readily agreed, and in (hey
gaed, leavin their horses at the door. 'Here William plied
the bagman — nothing loth, for he was a drucken wee rascal —
wi' brandy till he began to wink, and no to be perfectly
certain which end o' him was uppermost. Having reduced
him to this condition, his friend proposed that they should
be moving, when they both got up for that purpose.

' Where's my 'at ? said the bagman, turnin round to look for
the article he named.

' Here it's, man/ said William, coming behind him and
clapping the bonnet on his head.

'Thank you, friend !' replied the bagman, generously
believin that, as he felt something put upon his head,
it must be his hat ; and, thus theekit, he walked to the
door and mounted his horse, as grave and composed as if a*
was right, and rode off wi' William along side o' him.
They hadna ridden far, however, when his friend, for
obvious reasons, desirous of being quit o' his companion,
said he was sorry that they maun now part, he requiring,
as he told him before, to turn off the road a bit. On this
they shook hands and parted. The bagman hadna pro-
ceeded far wi' the notorious badge o' Scotland — the broad
blue bonnet — on his head, till he found himself, he could
not conceive how, an object of marked attention to a' the
passers by. At length, as he approached the town, this
attention became gradually more and more alarming, and
began at the same time to be accompanied by such symptoms
as plainly evinced that it was not of a pleasant character.

Popular notice, the bagman very weel saw, he had at-
tained by some means or other ; but he also saw as weel
that this by no means meant popular admiration ; for in
every face that was turned towards him there was an angry
scowl. Amazed and confounded at being thus so strangely
and disagreeably marked, the poor little Englishman looked
first at his legs and then at his horse, leaning forward for
this purpose, and then examined his own outer man all over,
to see if he could discern anything wrong with either,
that might account for his sudden elevation in the public
mind ; but he found nothing — all was right, and the little
bagman was more perplexed than ever. He rode on, how-
ever— as what else could he do ? — and at length entered the
town. Here the general attention became still more strikingly
marked : people stood on the streets and stared broadly
at him ; and, when he had passed, looked after him, and
shook their heads. At length matters came to a crisis.
This approached by occasional cries of ' Doon wi' the rebel !'
' Doon wi' the Scotch cut-throat !' ' Hang the robber !' ' Head
him ! Head him !' If confounded before, the little bag-
man was now ten times more so. These terms could never
apply to him, and yet they were most palpably directed tc
him. What on earth could it tiean ? To be taken, too, for
a character which of all others he most abhorred. It was
unaccountable — most extraordinary. In the meantime, both
the cries and the crowd increased, till the latter at length
fairly surrounded the little bagman and his horse, and
peremptorily arrested his progress, still shouting, but with
greater ferocity, ' Down with the rebel !'

' Good people,' said the perplexed arid terrified cratur,
' what do you mean ? Hear me for a moment. I'm no rebel.
I detest them as much as yon can do. I am an English-
man— a born Englishman.'

' Yes, when it suits your purpose, ye cowardly Scotch
dog !' exclaimed one of the crowd, adv^kicing towards him,
and seizing him by a leg.

' We know you too well by your head-mark,' said ^ a
second, bustling forward to have a share in forcibly dis-
mounting the wee bagman ; a measure which \vas now evi-
dently contemplated, if not determined on, by the crowd

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

' Yes, yes !' shouted a third — ' he has the mark of the
beast on him. Down with him ! down with him ! He can't
deny the blue bonnet. Down with it arid the head that's
in it !' Seeing all eyes at this moment directed to that part
of his person where a hat should have been, the wee bag-
man instinctively clapped his hand on his head. It felt
strange ! There was no superstructure — all was bare and
flat. He pulled off the mysterious covering, and beheld
with horror and amazement a large, broad, Scotch, blue
bonnet, the size of a cart wheel, with a red knob, like an
overgrown cherry, in the centre o't.

' Ay, where got ye that ? where got ye that ?' exclaimed
some one frae the crowd. But, though the question was
put, no answer was permitted to the questioned. In the
next instant he was on his back on the street, kicking and
struggling amongst the feet of his assailants, who applied
the latter to all parts o' his person wi' a rapidity and vigour
o' execution that threatened, and certainly would hae ex-
tinguished the wee life o' him, if he hadna been rescued a
trifle on this side o't by a guard o' sodgers, whom the alarm
had brought to the spot.

Battered, bruised, speechless, and his face streaming wi'
blood, the unfortunate bit bagman was nov conveyed to the
guard-house, and from thence, after he had somewhat re-
covered, to prison, under the same suspicion which had
procured him such rough treatment from the mob. So that,
to appearance, as they werena very nice in thae times,
he was saved frae a violent death only to be subjected to
anither ; frae bein kicked into the other world to be
hanged : and o' this opinion the wee bagman Avas himsel
for some time, for the authorities o' Carlisle Avar at that
time excessively loyal, and wadna cared muckle to hae
hanged him on chance. As it Avas, hoAvever, he was kept in
jail for a Aveek, when his innocence having been so clearly
established that the most loyal of his judges couldna deny
it, he Avas set at liberty — though wi' a grudge, for they Avad
still fain hae hanged him — wi' a caution never to wear a
blue bannet in Carlisle again.

"• The wee bagman," added the landlord, "has never come
this way sin*e, and I fancy now never Avill. Come, freends,"
continued he, " shute in your glasses — the drink's gettin
cauld ; and," he said, edging the mouth of the bowl slopinglv
towards him, so as to afford him a view of its contents,
" there's a gay drap in't yet." Then, with that forethought
Avhich Avas a very remarkable and praiseAvorthy trait in his
character — <e Betty," he cried out to a servant girl, u keep
the kettle boilin."

His call for the glasses of his friends being promptly
obeyed, they Avere as promptly refilled, and, it is but doing
justice to the honest men assembled on this occasion to
state, Avere as speedily emptied again. This done—

" Mr Gas," said Walter Gibson, one of the most exten-
sive traders and most respectable men in the company —
" Mr Gas/' he said — for they all addressed him as their
chairman — " these are a' queer aneuch stories in their way
that hae been tell't the nicht ; but I'm no sure if there's ony
o' them better than the story o' Sandy M'Gill and his
mither," The landlord cocked his ears.

<f And Avhat story's that, Watty ?" he said. " I never
heard it."

" It's no the Avaur o' that, however," said Watty drily.

•" No a grain," replied the other, Avith one of his good-
natured laughs ; " but let us judge for oursels."

" I'll do that," quoth Walter ; and ha immediately
began: — "Twa or three years ago, as ye a' ken, Lord
Drumlanrig, son o' the Duke o' Queensbery, raised a regi-
ment for what Avas ca'ed the Holland service. His Lordship's
headquarters, during the recruitin for the corps, Avas
Dumfries, where he used to beat up on the market-days.
Amongst those AV!IO Avere enlisted on ane o' thae occasions,
was a young lad o' the name o' Sandy M'Gill — a joiner to

trade. Sandy Avas a handsome, good-looking young man --.
very smart and clever, and possessed of a good educatidi;
that is, he wrote und figured weel.

On the regiment being completed, it was embodied at
Dunse, and then drilled for some time. It Avas then marched
to Leith, Sandy M Gill an' a', Avhere it was to be embarked
for Amsterdam. Two days after the regiment had left
Dunse, Lord Drumlanrig, mounted on horseback, and at-
tended by a servant, also mounted, set out from Dumfries to
join his regiment at Leith, whence he meant to sail with it
for Holland. On approachin the Nether Mill, his Lordship
was recognised, while yet at some distance, by an auld
blacksmith o' the name o' William Thamson.

' There,' said he, to a bit lively, hardy-looking auld wine — •
it was Widow M'Gill — fthere'sLord Drumlanrig comin forrit.'

' Is that him ?' quoth the auld wine; ' feth an' I maun speak
to him then ! He's taen awa my puir Sandy for a sodger.'

And she ran into the middle o' the road, and, ere Lord
Drumlanrig Avas aware, she had his horse by the bridle
exclaimin —

' Please yer Lordship, ye maun stop and speak to me a
wee. I hae something to say to ye.'

' What is it, my good woman ?' said his Lordship, smiling
good-naturedly ; ' but I'm in a great hurry, and you must
not detain me a moment.'

' What I Avant to speak to yer Lordship aboot/ replied
Widow M'Gill, taking nae notice o' his Lordship's impatience,
( is this : ye hae taen awa my puir son, Sandy, for a sodger,
an' I'm like to break my heart aboot him.'

' There's nae guid reason for that in the Avorld, my honest
woman,' said his Lordship ; ( as he'll be better AVI' me than
lyin at hame here, scartin the porridge pots.'

' I'm no sure o' that, my Lord, unless ye look Aveel to hiin
and tak him under yer special care. Ye'll fin' him Aveel
Avordy o't ; for, although I say it that sudena say it, he's a
clever, weel- inclined lad.'

' I've nae doot o't, honest Avoman, nae doot o't,' said his
Lordship, now endeavouring to move on ; ' and, you may de-
pend on't, I'll see that he gets every justice.' And he made
another attempt to get on.

' Na, na, my Lord,' said the AvidoAV, perceiving his efforts
to get quit of her, ' I Avunna let ye gang that Avay — I hae
something mair to say to ye yet ; but, as 1 see a' the neebors
glowrin at us, ye'll just come doon and step into the hoose
AVI' me a minute, and I'll tell ye there a' I hae to say.'

' Really, really, my good Avoman,' said his Lordship, in
great alarm at this threat o' further detention, ' it is im-
possible— I cannot on any account — I am indeed in a great
hurry, and exceedingly anxious to get forrit.'

* Deil-ma-care, my Lord I — the deil a fit o' ye'll stir till ye
come in wi' me a bit — on that I'm determined.' And she
took a still firmer baud o' the bridle.

' Some ither time, my guid Avoman,' said his Lordship,
despairingly.

1 Na, na, nae time like the present, my Lord/ replied the
widow.

Seein now that, unless he had recourse to some violence —
Avhich it was neither his nature nor desire to have — it Avas
useless to contend Avi' the resolute auld Avifc, his Lordship
dismounted, though, ye may believe, Avi' a very bad grace,
gave his horse to his servant to baud, and went in wi'
Widow M'Gill to her little cot. On enterin the hoose, his
Lordship made anither desperate effort to prevail on the
\vidow to shorten his detention.

' NOAV, my guid woman/ he said, ' let me beg o' you to say
quickly AA'hat ye hae to say, for I really Avill not be detained.'

'No twa minnits, no twa minnits, my Lord/ said the
widoAv, dustin, Avi' great activity, wi' her apron, a chair for his
Lordship to sit doun upon.

' No, no ; I really AA'ill not sit down/ said his Lordship,
determinedly. 'I'll hear Avhat you hae to say standin.'

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

' But ye maun sit, my Lord/ replied the widow, wi' equal
resolution. ' A bonny thing it wad be, you to come into
my hoose, an' gang oot again withoot sittin doun. Na, na,
that maunna be said. Doun, my Lord, ye maun sit.' And,
seein that he would only increase his ain delay by resist-
ance, doun, to be sure, his Lordship did sit. ' Noo, my
Lord/ says the widow, ' I'm sure the deil a morsel o'
breakfast ye hae gotten the day yet — for it's no^aboon seven
o'clock ; sae ye'll just tak a mouthfu wi' me.'

At this horrid proposal his Lordship sprang frae his
chair — for he was noo fairly driven at bay — and made for the
door ; but the widow was as clever in the heels as he was.
She sprang after him, an', before he could gain the door, had
him fast by the tails o' the coat, exclaimin, as she pu'ed him
back —

' Deil a fit o' ye, my Lord/s gaun oot o' this hoose till ye
taste my bread an' "cheese. 1'se haud ye fast, I warrant.'

Regardless o' her threats, his Lordship still pressed for
the door ; but the stieve auld wifie held on wi' a determined
an' riae feckless grip, an' he couldna mak it oot, withoot
efforts that might do her an injury. Seein this, an' seein,
at the same time, the ludicrousness o' the struggle, his Lord-
ship at length gied in, an' returned to his seat. In a
twinklin the active auld wifie had a table before him,
covered wi' bread, butter, and cheese, and a large jug o'
sweet milk.

' Noo, my Lord, see an' tak a mouthfu. It's but namely
tare to put before a Lord ; but it's gien wi' hearty guid will,
an' that maun mak amends.'

His Lordship good-naturedly took a little of what was
put before him. While doin this, the auld wifie kept up a
runnin fire o' sma' talk.

' Noo, my Lord, ye'll be guid to my son. He's an honest
/nan's bairn, but his faither's dead an' gane mony a year
syne ; an' mony a lonely seat an' saif heart has fa'en to my
share sin syne ; but I aye looked forward to findin a com-
forter an' supporter in my only son, in my auld age ; but
noo he's taen frae me too, an' a' is desolation an' darkness
around me.'

Here the puir widow, whose maternal feelings, thus ex-
cited by the picture she had drawn o' her ain loneliness, had
suddenly and totally changed her character, or rather had
brocht oot its real qualities, which were, after a', those o'
a kind an' feelin heart, raised the corner o' her apron to
her eyes an' wiped awa an involuntary tear. His Lord-
ship, notwithstandin o' the provokin predicament in which
he was, feelin much affected by the widow's lamentations,
thus simply expressed, took oot a memorandum-book frae
his pocket, an' havin inquired her son's name, and the name
o' the place o' her residence, wrote them doun. He next
asked if she knew in whose company he was.

' Captain Dooglas,' replied the widow — ' Captain Dooglas
they ca' him.' Then becomin querist in turn — ' Do ye ken
Kvhat sort o' a man he is, my Lord ?'

f Oh, an excellent man, my guid woman,' said his Lord-
ship. ' Your son could not be under a better fellow.' And
his Lordship noted doun this circumstance also, wi' the name
o' Sandy's captain.

Havin dune this, he replaced his memorandum-book
in his pocket, an' rose frae his seat, the widow noo offerin
nae farther resistance ; an' havin placed, unperceived as he
thought, a couple o' guineas on the table, was aboot to leave
the hoose, after shakin his hostess kindly by the hand — for
his Lordship was noo rather tickled wi' the adventure a'the-
gither — an' promisin to see to the interests o' her son, when
the widow, gettin her ee on the coin, snatched it upr an
was forcin it back on its original possessor, exclaimin —

' Na, na, my Lord — I'll tak nae siller for kindness. A
that I want ia that ye wad be guid to my puir Sandy, whan
he's far awa frae his hame an' his freends. Be kind till him,
tny Lord, an' tak the widow's blessin in return.' An' she was

pressin the money back on his Lordship, when he ran frae her
got oot o' the hoose, an' was aboot to mount his horse, when
to his unutterable horror, he heard the widow exclaimin
— ' Gude guide me ! I hae a' this time forgotten your servant,
my Lord— an' he'll be hungry aneuch, too, puir fallow I I hae
nae doot.' An' she ran an' seized his horse next by the
bridle. ' Come doun, lad, an' come in by a bit, an' tak a
mouthfu. His Lordship, I'm sure, '11 wait twa or three
minnits on ye without grudgiri't ; for the puir maun be fed as
weel as the rich, the man as weel as his maister.'

' No, no, no. For God's sake, my guid woman, let us
be gone,' exclaimed his Lordship, in an implorin voice, and
noo beginnin to think he wad never get oot o' the auld wife's
hands.

' Na, troth, my Lord, I'll no let him go. The lad maun
hae a mouthfu o' meat.'

' Then, in heaven's name,' said his Lordship, ' if ye will
hae him tak something, bring't oot till him here, and dinna
tak him aff his horse.'

Complyin wi' this request, the very first she had complied
wi', the auld wifie ran in to the house — his Lordship, while
she was there, tellin his servant to put at ance into his pocket
whatever she brought — and brought oot a quantity o' bread
and cheese, which the man disposed of as his master had
desired him.

The coast being now clear, his Lordship, after again
shakin hands wi' the auld wife, and promisin to keep an ee
on her son, put spurs to his horse, and darted aff at full
speed, as delighted wi' his liberty as if he had escaped frae
a highwayman ; but, fast as he gaed, it was some seconds
before he got oot o' hearin o' the auld wife's voice, bawlin
after him — ' Noo, my Lord, dinna forget Sandy, dinna
forget Sandy M'Gill.'

On gaining some distance, both master and man drew
bridle and laughed heartily at the adventure wi' the auld
wife o' the Nether Mill.

Aweel, shortly after, his Lordship embarked for Holland
with a part of his regiment — the remainder, amongst which
was Sandy M'Gill, proceeding in another vessel — and arrived
there, as did the whole corps, in due time, and without any
accident.

Some days after the landin, Lord Drumlanrig, at parade
one forenoon, after speakin and laughin for a few minutes
wi' Captain Douglas in front o' the line, went up to a cer-
tain guid-lookin young sodger in that officer's company, and,
callin him out frae his comrades, asked him his name.

' Sandy M'Gill, my Lord,' replied the young man,
touchin his hat, and somewhat surprised at bein singled out
in this way.

' Exactly/ said his Lordship. ' Well, Sandy, I breakfasted
in your mother's house on my way frae Dumfries to Edin-
burgh, just before I left Scotland ; and a kind, hearty old
woman she is, I assure you/

' I wonder, my Lord/ said Sandy, blushing, ' that my
mother could hae had the impudence to tak your Lordship
into her puir sooty house.'

' It was no impudence at all,, bandy— nae such thing. It
Was oot o' kindness to me and affection for you. The break-
fast, however, was an excellent one, and gien wi' a hearty
welcome and richt guid wull. But I promised yer mother,
Sandy/ continued his Lordship, < to look after ye, and I
mean to do sae. Can you write any ?'

Sandy said he could.

' Can you figure ?'

Another reply in the affirmative.

'Can ye shew me your handwriting? Have ye any
specimens upon you ?'

Sandy pulled out of his pocket some scraps o' paper that
exhibited his fist. His Lordship looked at them, and said the
writino- was very guid— that it wad do very weel.
then, Sandy/ he added, • I'll tell ye what I mean to do for

280

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

you, to begin wi' ; there's anither sergeant wanted for your
company, and I hae desired Captain Douglas to appoint you.
You will get a suit o' claes frae the store, and there's five
guineas to you to purchase necessaries, and I hae nae doot
ye'll turn oot a guid and brave sodger.'

Sandy endeavoured to express his gratitude for the sudden
and unexpected fortune ; but he couldna. Nor, though he
had been able, did his Lordship gie him an opportunity ; for,
anticipating the lad's embarrassment, he walked awa the
moment he had dune speakin.

Next day, Sandy appeared in the uniform o' a non-commis-
sioned officer ; and, being now on the road to promotion,
returned, at the conclusion o' the war, to his native place, a
captain ; attributin a* his guid fortune to .the breakfast
which his mother gae to LordDrumlanrig at the Nether Mill."

" Aweel, it is really curious hoo things turn oot sometimes,"
said lang Jamie Turner, on the conclusion o' the foregoing
etory — very curious. Did ye ever hear, Mr Gas," continued
Jamie, now addressing his landlord, " hoo Jock Tinwald, a
son o' Andrew Tinwald's o' Shaw Hill, recovered forty guineas
he once lost at the Candlemas Fair o' Dumfries ?"

" No," said Mr Gas, looking with interest at the speaker.
" I never heard that ane."

'• It was a gay clever ane," said Jamie Turner, and, with-
out further preface, he proceeded to relate the following
adventure : —

" On a certain Candlemas Fair, some twa or three years
back, auld Tinwald o' Shaw Hill, sent his son, Jock, to
Dumfries, wi' forty guineas in a net purse in his pocket, to
purchase a couple of good draught horses. Jock wasna lang
in the fair until he fell in wi' twa horses that appeared to be
o' precisely the description he wanted. He inquired their
price, tound it wasna far beyond the mark, and, finally, after
some chaffering, struck a bargain with the seller. This done,
the young farmer put his hand into his pocket, to bring out
the net purse with the forty guineas. He started and looked
pale. It was not in the pocket in which he thought — nay,
in which he was certain he had put it. He searched another,
and another, and another, with distraction in his looks. It
was in none of them — it was lost, gone ! He had been
robbed. Of this there was no doubt. Poor Jock was in
despair, but it was an evil without a remedy ; for he had
not the smallest notion when, where, or by whom he had
been plundered. There was, therefore, no help for it ; and,
feeling this, Jock repaired to a public house, drowned the
recollection of his loss in brandy, and went home at night
penniless, horseless, and drunk.

Six months after this, the Kude Fair of Dumfries came
round ; .an', in the thick an' the thrang o' this fair, micht hae
been seen the braid shouthers an' the round, healthfu', guid-
natured face o' Jock Tinwald. But surely he'll tak care
this time how he mingles wi' the crood, or at least keep a
sharp ee on his neeboors. Not he. There he is, pushin an'
jostlin awa in the heart o' the very densest mass, wi' an
apparent regardlessness o' consequences which is most amaz-
ing, considerin the loss he sustained on a former occasion.
Nay, not only is he doin this, but he is ostentatiously dis-
playin a purse apparently as well filled as the last one. This
does, indeed, seem the extreme of folly. But it only seems
so. It is not without a reason. Jock is not so unguarded as
he appears. The truth is, he is just now practising a ruse
which he is not without hope may help him to the recovery
o' his forty guineas.

The purse which Jock is so openly sporting is filled not
with gold, but with copper. It contains, in short, instead ot
guineas, a quantity of farthings, and is thus ostentatiously
displayed in the hope of attracting the notice of the light-
fingered gentleman who had relieved him on the former
occasion — and with what promise of success may be guessed
frae the following incident.

On Tinwald's first entering the scene o the fair, he was

marked by two persons of very equivocal appearance who
were hovering about.

' That,' said ane o' them, nudging his neebor wi' his elbow,
and inclinin his head towards Tinwald — ' that's the flat I
did at the last Candlemas Fair. The easiest handled guse
I ever cam across.'

' What wad ye think o' our tryin him again ?' said the
speaker's neebor.

' Wi' a my heart,' replied the other. ' He's but a saft
ane ; but I fear he'll no hae onything on him this time.'

At this instant the fears of the pair of pickpockets on this
score were relieved by a sight of Jock's purse. It caught
their eyes in a moment, and they viewed it with a delight
which gentlemen of their profession alone can know. They
felt as sure of it as if it were already in their pockets.
Dropping all other speculation, therefore, they now commenced
dogging Jock, who was fishing away with his purse through
the crowd, like an angler with his fly, for the thief of his
guineas or some of his gang, whom he had a ptetty shrewd
notion would not be far off. Jock, however, took care to
keep the exhibition of his purse within bounds. He took
care not to make an over frequent or suspicious display of
it, only occasionally, and then returning it to a certain side
pocket of easy access. There was nothing, therefore, which
Tinwald was at this moment so anxious for as to feel a
hand in the said pocket ; and this was a gratification which
he was not long denied. A hand was introduced, he felt it,
and, turning quickly round, he seized the person to whom
it belonged.

' I ken ye, freen,' said Jock to his prisoner, in a low whisper
— * I ken ye perfectly weel. It was you that robbed me o'
forty guineas in a green net purse at the last Candlemas
Fair.' (All this was said by Jock at a venture, but by chance
was true.) ' Now, I say, let me hae the money back quietly
and I'll tak nae mair notice o' the matter ; but, an' ye dinna,
I'll immediately gie the alarm an' hae ye apprehended. Sae
tak yer choice, freen. But, mind, there's a rope round your
neck : it's hanging at the very least.'

' Let me go, then, and folloAV me,' replied the depredator,
briefly, and in the same low tone that he had been addressed.

Jock loosed his grasp, and keeping close behind his
man, who immediately began threadin his way oot o' the
crood, followed him till they had cleared it ; when, dreadin
a sudden bolt, he cam up close beside him ; an' thus the
two held on their way, till they cam to a retired part o' the
market place, when the thief suddenly stopped, an', plungin
his hand into his bosom, drew oot a leathern bag, from which
he counted into the astonished young farmer's hand forty
golden guineas. Jock, confounded at his own success, could
scarcely believe his eyes when he looked at the precious
deposit in his hand ; and, in the fulness o' his joy, insisted
on giein the thief half-a-mutchkin o' brandy on the head o't
This, however, the latter declined, and, in an instant after,
disappeared in the crowd ; an' Jock never saw mair o
him. An' sae ends my story, freens," added lang Jamie
Turner.

" An', by my feth, a richt guid ane — a real clever ane,"
said the landlord, as he filled glasses round, and, rising on
his little, short legs, drank to each and all of the company " a
soun sleep an' a blyth waukenin." In two or three minutes
more, the kitchen of the Floshend Inn was cleared of its
tenants, and, for that night at any rate, no more was heard
in it the sounds of revelry, nor the accompanying glee of the
gibe, or jest, or merry tale.

WILSONS

fcal, flTvatu'tuinarg, antr aEmas

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SKETCHES FROM A SURGEON'S NOTE-BOOK.

CHAP. IV — THK HEIRESS OF INSANITY.

AMIDST the many evils incident to humanity, it may well
be questioned whether there is any calamity entitled to the
denomination of fortuitous, so appalling in its magnitude
and effects as hereditary madness. All language breaks down
and becomes feeble in the effort to give any description of
it, which, however aided by figures of thought or speech,
can convey a truer or a stronger idea of its horrors than
can be produced from the bare contemplation of the subject,
as it is presented to ordinary minds. It is not, however,
after the disease has laid hold of its victim, and reason is
hurled from her throne, that the form of the calamity, how-
ever it may harrow the feelings of beholders, presents
its strongest claims upon the sympathies of mankind. There
is reason to suppose, though we know little of the true
feelings of insane persons, that the heir expectant is a much
more miserable creature than the heir in possession. The
tendency of the human mind to apprehend evil — even where
it is distant, and entirely out of the view of all moral cal-
culation— is well known, and cannot be better exemplified
than by the effect produced in the minds of healthy indi-
viduals, by a continued perusal of medical books. In the
case of heirs of insanity, if we were to calculate the in-
tensity of misery produced by the apprehension of their
natural hereditary enemy— by the increase of risk over the
ordinary chance of any disease capable of producing fear of
its onset — we would arrive at an amount of pain under
which human nature would sink and expire. Fortunately
for these children of misfortune, the proportion does not
hold equally in both cases ; but, after making all the
allowances that may be required, a sum of misery remains
to him who sees his brothers and sisters cut down before
him by the sword, which, when suspended, is hung like
that of Damocles, over his head, sufficient to make us
wonder at the ways of Providence, which tempers the blast
to the shorn lamb. Our wonder is increased, when we
know that these unfortunates derive from their very calamity
a susceptibility which often shrinks from the first breath
of misfortune. Doubtless the amount of pain and appre-
hension experienced is dreadful, as the case I am about
to describe sufficiently shews ; but the question is difficult
to be solved, how nature works in the production of a
result so strange as that such a misfortune can at all be
borne.

For many years I attended, as medical adviser, the
family of Mr Warden, who, having renounced business as a
merchant, in which he had amassed a large fortune, retired
to a country seat about two miles from town, where he in-
tended to pass the remainder of his life. He had other
reasons for this retirement besides the ordinary love of ease
in advanced age ; for a misfortune of an extraordinary nature
had befallen his family, which, though absolutely beyond
the powers of mitigation possessed by the art of man, might
at least be rendered less insupportable, by being removed
from the reach of the officious sympathy of a gazing world.
This misfortune was no other than the appearance in his
family of a most inveterate and unsparing hereditary in-
140. VOL. III.

sanity — an evil which seems to stand in solemn mockery of
triumph over all the other extraordinary visitations of
heaven. He had married his wife in ignorance of a circum-
stance which, however, might not,althoughhe had been aware
of it, have overcome his affection or determination to wed —
the insanity of her mother and grandfather, besides that of
several collaterals. The disease had not appeared in her
till she had arrived at an advanced ag3 ; but, at the period
of Mr Warden's retirement, she was confined in a private
asylum, where there were also two of her daughters,
Elizabeth and Mary, young women who could at one
time boast of very considerable personal attractions and
mental accomplishments. I had witnessed the first out-
breakings of the disease in the youngest daughter, Mary ;
and having been thence led to make inquiry into the history
of their mother's relations, soon saw the danger (imme-
diately afterwards realized) which impended over the whole
members of the family. Elizabeth, who was about nineteen
years of age, was seized after her sister ; and then the
mother shared the fate she had unconsciously been the
means of producing to her daughters.

It was with considerable difficulty that I could prevail
upon Mr Warden to consent to the removal of his wife,
from the house she had rendered to him a sanctuary of peace
and happinesss ; but the violent type of her disease recon-
ciled him to a step which, when it was first proposed to
him, appeared to be beyond the powers of his resolution and
will. 1 consulted the good of the unfortunate individuals
themselves in suggesting the place of their confinement ;
but there were others whose peculiar situation demanded
imperatively the absence of the living monuments of that
fate which impended, with threatening aspect, like the
stone of Tantalus, over their own devoted heads ; and the
very spectacle of which, embodied in the madness of dear
friends, might be the means of stimulating the hereditary
poison which lurked in their bosoms. Two other daughters
remained in the house with their father after the removal
of their mother and sisters ; one of them, named Martha, of
a saturnine temperament, and very liable to share the fate of
her sisters ; and the other, Isabella, the most beautiful and ac-
complished of the family, and one of the most extraordinary
young ladies I have ever met with. I received from the
unfortunate father — whose solicitude for the health of his
two remaining daughters was proportioned to the grief he
had experienced in the loss of the others — the most anxious
instructions to do all that could be done for their safety and
preservation from the hereditary evil, which, like an insidious
serpent, lay coiled up in their vitals, ready to start into
living action on the application of any extraordinary cause
of disturbance. The one, Martha, I had, from the beginning,
little hope of being able to save from the fate of her sisters,
who, previous to their seizure, exhibited fewer of the signs of
hereditary insanity than could by the most unobservant
person have been detected in her dull eye, which seemed to
prefer resting on inanity to obeying intelligent impulses, or
in her fits of melancholy and abstraction, into which, even
in the midst of conversation, she was continually in the habit
of falling. My anticipations were too soon realized : about
two years after the removal of the mother, the fourth victim
was added to this implacable power, and Isabella, the re

282

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

maining daughter, was all that was left to the father of
one of the finest families in that part of the country.

A calamity like that which I have here plainly stated,
produces a feeling of surprise greater than might be ex-
pected from what in this country is by no means an u/k-
frequent occurrence. Every effort is taken, .and naturally
resorted to, for the purpose of concealing the ravages made
by our national scourge, scrofula, on the minds and bodies
of the inhabitants of this kingdom, where the demon seems
to hold his high court, I am satisfied that I am much
within the mark when I say, that not one victim out of ten
is ever known to the public as being under the dominion of
this fell power. Parents who have large families, have, be-
sides their natural wish, a deep interest in the concealment ot
a fact which, in addition to rendering their daughters unmar-
riageable, often makes them objects of pity. In my experi-
ence, I have known instances where sons and daughters, upon
being consigned to a madhouse, have been represented as sent
to foreign parts ; and, where the fact of the disease will not
otherwise conceal, some scheme is generally devised for
giving it a false name, so that the credit of the family may
remain unaffected by the disparaging and destructive in-
fluence of this fama malissima which attaches to it. I say
nothing of the effects produced by this system of conceal-
ment on the fortunes and happiness of the individuals who,
in ignorance, are united to the relatives of the unfortunate
beings. That is a question of social polity. I mean
merely to give a reason why the extraordinary fate of
the family of Mr Warden may excite a feeling of surprise,
which would not interfere with the province of pity, if the
frequency of such an effect, from a cause in daily operation,
were better known.

The remaining daughter of Mr "Warden was, as I have
said, a very extraordinary young woman. I am not con-
fident of my powers of presenting an adequate description
of her ; for, independently of her peculiar natural attributes,
the unusual, if not fearful situation in which she was placed,
reared up in her emotions and feelings of a factitious nature,
which modified her original disposition, and produced a
kind of being apa:t from ordinary mortals, and very dif-
ficult to be described or understood. She inherited from
her mother a very tall, commanding person, remarkably
handsome and well formed. The saturnine constitution
which prevailed, more or less, throughout the family, had
fallen also, though not to an equal extent with her sisters,
to her lot ; but, in place of producing the dark melancholy
aspect which I had observed in the rest of the family, it
imparted to her merely a paleness which contrasted remark-
ably with an eye in which the enthusiasm of the inspiration
of genius seemed to be continually burning. Her face was
a regular oval; and every feature, from the eyebrows to the
lips, seemed to have received the last touch of the fastidious
hand which had resolved upon producing the most perfect
effort of the chisel. In endeavouring to give some idea of
the beauty of this young woman, I am only afraid of ap-
pearing to depart from the sober reason which should regu-
late the burin employed to delineate the every-day truth of
life. I cannot be going too far, however, when I say that
I never saw what appeared to me a more perfect model
of the female countenance — comprehending, as I do by that
phrase, the physical lineaments, and that continual and
inexpressible modification of them produced by a highly
intellectual and sentimental mind, moulding them into
forms suited to its own inherent sense of beauty. The
chance of the occurrence of so perfect a co-ordination and
agreement between the highest conditions of the moral and
physical attributes of human nature must be small indeed,
when I am constrained to admit that I never, before or
since, saw any individual in which I could say I had found
them in such absolute perfection.

The enthusiasm of this young lady, which imparted to

her thoughts and feelings a high tone dtud an impassioned
character, was, however, nearly allied to the excitement
which, taking another form, had produced the insanity of
her family. The thin partition which separates genius
from madness has been often noticed, and, in this instance,
it seemed as if the one might be seen passing into the other.
She had exhibited an early taste for poetry of that kind
which accorded with the bold and intellectual cast of her
mind ; and I often remarked, as I conversed with her, that
her ordinary speech, when it embraced an exalted subject,
presented many of the features of the expression cf genius.
She was in the habit, as she confessed to me, of sending
fugitive pieces to the public prints ; and I have seen some
of her effusions on which great praise was bestowed by
those who were entirely ignorant of the writer, and which
appeared to myself to be beautiful in a very eminent degree.
Her imagination was remarkably vivid and strong, and the
excitability of her feelings so tender and acute, that she was
continually suffering the greatest pain from the slightest
occurrences, at the very time that she was exposed to misfor-
tunes, nearly unparalleled in point of extent, as well as the
peculiarity of their kind.

I witnessed successively the effects produced upon the
mind of one so peculiarly constituted, by the calamities
which befell her mother and sisters, all of whom she loved
with even greater enthusiasm than she displayed in the
expression of the most cherished of her feelings. The
hereditary poison carried in the veins of her mother, had
been very industriously concealed from the daughters ; and
when Mary first exhibited the undoubted symptoms of the
disease, Isabella looked upon the circumstance, in the midst
of her grief, as altogether unconnected with any taint of
the blood. When Elizabeth experienced the fate of Mary,
her mind, quick and keen in the search of causes of extra-
ordinary events, began to work, and she soon saw the ex-
tent of the awful truth, which, in a short time after, wa.
confirmed by the madness of her mother and of her remain-
ing sister, Martha. It seemed to me to be extraordinary
that one so constituted could have withstood, as she did,
the fearful onset of these repeated misfortunes ; but, though
they did not cause that madness they exemplified, they
produced a state of mind perhaps not less painful, either to
the victim herself or those who were forced to witness the
workings of a settled conviction, accompanied with a con-
tinual apprehension, of following the fate of the other mem-
bers of her family.

At Mr Warden's request, I regularly visited, twice a-
week, this interesting and unfortunate creature. The effect
produced on her by the fates of the other members of the
family, was not attempted by her to be concealed. She
spoke openly to her father and to me of the probability, nay,
certainty, of becoming a victim to the same relentless power,
which she said she felt, though in a dormant state, within
the penetralia of her own constitution. I myself was con-
scious that she spoke the truth ; but, if I had been called
upon to say why I was of that opinion, I am not certain if
I could have given any other reason for my belief, than
simply that the enthusiasm of her mind, though not greater
than that of individuals of genius, came unfortunately in aid
of the presumption against her, arising from the hereditary
taint. Mr Warden was secretly of the same opinion ; but
the thought of seeing a creature so highly, indeed wonder-
fully gifted with personal and mental beauties and accom-
plishments, changed, as her sisters had been, into the raving
maniac or drivelling idiot, (for in both these types the
disease had shewn itself in the others,) transcended appar-
ently all his remaining powers of endurance, and he confessed
to me, with tears in his eyes, that, if Isabella followed the
fate of her sisters, he was afraid he would be driven to the
extremity of attempting his own life. His entreaties to me
were incessant, that I should devote as great a portion of my

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

time as was in my power towards endeavouring so to regulate
the personal and mental functions of his daughter, as to
ward from him and her the calamities they respectively
dreaded. I felt too much anxiety and interest for the
interesting object herself — whose conversation delighted me,
while her elevated sentiments and manners dignified human
nature itself — to require entreaties to quicken my profes-
sional energies in her behalf; but I knew too well how
little was in my power, and I could plainly see that the
penetrating mind of the young lady herself placed no great
reliance on human powers, to rescue her from the perilous
situation in which she was placed.

Her greatest danger lay in that perturbation of mind
under which she laboured, from the excited state of her
feelings. I have known instances of violent grief having the
effect of stimulating a dormant mania. In the present
instance, the grief Miss Warden experienced on the access
if her family calamity, was of the peculiar character of the
remaining victim who sees before his eyes the process of the
immolation of his colleagues, at the moment he is listening
to hear the knell of his own condemnation to a similar fate.
Terror being generally a more powerful disturbing cause
than grief, is often able to expel, for a time, the latter
feeling from the mind, and I have always found it a stronger
agent in the excitement of this hereditary disease. So long,
therefore, as the apprehension of a similar fate occupied the
mind of my patient, I had reason to tremble every day for
an attack ; and my first efforts were naturally directed
towards producing a conviction that, so long as the ordinary
state of the body and mind could be kept up — the one free
from any derangement of its economy, and the other tranquil
and natural — every hope might reasonably be indulged of
being able to perpetuate an exemption from the calamity she
feared. I produced to her many instances, occurring in my
own practice, and collected from medical books, of several
members of a family being saved out of the most inveterate
rases of confirmed hereditary insanity ; and, indeed, in the
,ery worst and most aggravated visitations, I had often
/emarked the curious fact, that there is generally an
exemption to some extent, if it should be limited even to
one solitary /ndividual. I added, that I had been often led
to meditate on this striking example of the providence of
Fate in the midst of the sternest of its vindications ; and,
though I could not pretend to account for it, on any principle
that would be received as satisfactory by professional men,
I could rely upon it with sufficient confidence, to enable me
to impress my opinions with the seal of undoubted sincerity,
when I led her to believe that she had every reason to
expect the desired exemption, if she followed my precepts
in keeping up an equanimity of mind, and ordinary health
of the body.

" I fear,"" she replied, shaking her head, " when you ask
from me the condition of keeping this mind tranquil, you
desire what these illuminated eyes declare never can be
conceded, by that which, alas ! has not the gift to bestow.
The ardent enthusiasm of my mind, and my morbid excit-
ability, are, I much fear, only the symptoms of the presence
within me of the same spirit that, once roused, dethroned
the reason of my poor sisters and mother, and consigned
them to the dismal cells where they now lie, weeping and
tearing their hair, and yet unconscious of the extent of
their calamity. I do not doubt your word when you tell
me that you have often seen members of a family spared
from the most inveterate visitations of this disease ; but I
cannot place much faith on what I do not understand, even
were I further to admit that there may be some reason for
supposing the existence of a law against the occurrence of
that ' fell swoop' which clears root and branch, the entire
stock, iind leaves not a leaf to tell where the tree grew.
Faith in a good Providence rather prompts the question,
Whyshould I be saved, to transmit miservto my descendants?

But my heart, with an impatient pulse, decides the question
of my fate. I fed that I must obey the power that exerts
its fearful dominion over our house. The illumination ot
my fancy, \vhen it is fired with the enthusiasm of a bumino-
spirit, appears to me often as the first flash of the scorching
light, thrown forward by the Fiend, to blind reason and
make her a more easy prey. I know you are my friend ;
and I claim the privilege of asking you to tell me frankly
when my enemy comes, rather than deceive me by assur-
ances that he who is sent by a higher power will never come.
Oh ! who knows what it is to have reason to doubt hia

reason !

The eloquence she thus displayed in her comersation had
generally the effect of silencing, for a time, my prosaic argu-
ments ; but I persevered in my humane endeavours ; and
even the conversations in which I engaged with her blunted,
in some degree, the edge of her fears, by making the subject
familiar to her, and thus reduced the perturbation which a
silent brooding over an apprehended ill might have increased.
I plainly saw that my efforts to draw her from the subject
which occupied her mind were unavailing, and might even
be productive of bad effects, and therefore never shrunk
from the task of fairly meeting her impassioned arguments
with an open and unrestrained explication of my thoughts
in opposition to her views. The natural enthusiasm and
activity of her mind sometimes carried her away to her
favourite subjects of poetry and painting, and afforded her some
relief from the apprehension that haunted her so unremittingly;
but the dominant feeling was sure again to resume its autho-
rity as soon as the fit of enthusiasm had ended on the uer-
formance which had exhausted her new-born energies.

In common with all individuals of enthusiastic tempera,
ments, I found her often in alternate extremes of high
feeling and deep despondency — two states of the mind
which, I am inclined to think, exist almost always as coun-
terparts of equal though antagonist powers, and are seldom
if ever found (at least as habits) separate and unconnected.
One day, a supernatural yet delightful buoyancy, adding an
additional charm to beauties of the first order, would hare
triumphed over her apprehensions, and forced her to give
egress to her high-toned feelings in some exquisite lines of
poetry, or in the flights of a spirited and sparkling convers-
ation, which charmed and enchained the ear of the indi
vidual who was fortunate enough to be her companion at
that auspicious time. In the evening, again, of the same
day, the genius would have been found fled, and her sombre
spirit brooding over the prevailing feeling of apprehension,
which seemed, while this state of her mind lasted, to have the
power of marshalling all her thoughts and feelings, and im-
parting to them the atrabilious hue of its own darkness.

One evening when I called, her father informed me that
she had, during the forepart of the day, exhibited, to some
individuals who delighted in her company, great powers of
sprightly and fascinating conversation ; and some of them
had confessed to him that they did not conceive that it was
even in the power of inspiration to paint, with the endless
colours of fancy — varying the tints and blending the deli-
cate hues into one beautiful whole — the various subjects
introduced and spoken on, in the matchless manner she
had that day exhibited. The tear of pity followed close on
the look of pride, as the unfortunate father added, that I
would find her altogether changed. I went into the room
where she was sitting, and saw at once that she was in one
of her deepest fits of dejection, with her accustomed relent-
less apprehension exercising over her its usual influence.
Her brow was leant upon her left hand, and before her lay
a sheet of paper containing some writing, over which she
was passing occasionally the fingers of her right hand, on
which some brilliant gems shone brightly, as they presented,
by the motions, different angles to the light. She started
as I entered but welcomed me kindly when she discovered

284

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

who it was that had thus disturhed her reverie. I asked
her what she was studying so intensely.

" This forenoon," she replied, " after the departure of
some visiters, I took advantage of an inspiration which my
conversation with them had produced, and sat down and

composed a piece which I intended for 's Magazine.

After it was finished, my thoughts took a sudden turn, and
became entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the con-
dition of my mother and sisters, sitting listless and miserable
in their places of confinement. I have thought of this
melancholy subject day and night for along period; but I do
not recollect of ever having presented to me with the same
startling and terrific interest the question — Why am I, one
out of five, alone exempted from this hereditary fate ? I
cannot describe to you the feeling which accompanied this
self-put interrogation. So strong was the conviction upon
me that I must submit, if I am not already subjected to
the grasp of the same power, that I even applied to myself
the term ' fool,' and laughed a hideous laugh at the weak
and imbecile confidence I sometimes place in the hope of
escaping my destiny. The frightful train of thought has
continued to this hour. I arn doubtful of myself, and have
been trying to discover in this paper some traces of a
wandering mind. Will you read it, and tell me honestly,
if you find in any part of the composition a change in the
sentiment, or the want of a link in the chain of thought.
I know I can trust you as a friend, and the reasons for my
fears are too strong to justify any suspicion that I am
hypochondriac or morbidly fanciful."

I examined her eye as she continued her speech ; but saw
nothing to create any alarm. I received from her hands
the paper, and found her composition to be a very beautiful
impassioned description of the various sympathies that exist
throughout nature, ranged according to their powers, and
ending in an ascending scale with love. The subject was
delicately and beautifully handled; and the only thing which
J could discover as being peculiar in the composition, viewed
as coming from her, whose pieces I had often read with
delight, was that it embraced a subject she had generally
shewn a wish to avoid. I took no notice of this peculiarity,
and confined my remarks to the manner in which the piece
was handled. 1 had no difficulty in assuring her that the
spirit of the composition was continued uniformly through-
out, without lapse or failing, and that, whatever turn her
feelings might have taken during the time occupied in the
work, no trace could be discovered in the piece itself of any
falling off of the spirit and sentiment which dictated the
first noble line of it. With a view to change the current
of her thoughts, I enlarged on the many beauties which
the performance undoubtedly exhibited, and assured her
that the power she so much dreaded would have no easy
task to perform, in breaking up a mind in which the ele-
ments of strength were as well marked as those of taste and
beauty.

" You know I held your promise," she said, with an air
of sombre satisfaction, " that you would watch the changes
of my mind, and inform me honestly of those turns of which
we are often entirely unconscious, though they exhibit the
first struggles of the frightened intellect, as it shrinks from
the aspect of the dreadful enemy of reason. I am assured,
by what you say, that he is not yet come ; though I fear
the visit is only delayed. When will this cease ? What I
am for ever feeling, all the powers of inspiration could but
faintly delineate. What I have suffered within this hour, I
defy the most pregnant fancy to shadow forth, even doubt-
fully. Need I say more than that I was under the convic-
tion that I was as my sisters and mother are ? My terrors
produced the confusion they feared. I scanned that paper
till the words reeled before my eyes, and sense, reason, and
intelligence were lost in the whirlpool of a fancied mad-
ness. I held out my hands and looked around me for aid ;

but my fevered imagination could discover nothing but the
tenanted cells of that place of confinement where those
nearest and dearest to me lie in agony and tears, and
whither I fancied myself dragged, helpless and powerless,
from the binding ropes by which my arms were confined.
Now I feel a modified relief again — and thus am I doomed
to an endless succession of periods of enthusiasm, and fits of
melancholy and terror."

I was not in any degree surprised at this eloquent de-
scription of her feelings ; for I have seen instances ot
individuals of sober habits of thought, who, under the fear
of hereditary insanity to which they were exposed, fancied, on
certain occasions, that they were truly under the power ot
their enemy. But I do not think I ever had a patient who
possessed so many claims on my feelings as this child of
genius and misfortune exhibited with such unconscious
power. An adverse fate had furnished a reason for her
apprehension which a stoic philosopher, in the midst of all
his triumph over the feelings of human nature, could not
have disregarded ; while her susceptibility, the very off-
spring of her dangerous constitution, and itself the parent
of so many of the exquisite beauties of her character, kept
her continually either on the stretch of an enthusiastic
excitement, which made near approaches to the state she
dreaded, or on the rack of a false conviction that she was
deranged, or about to lose her reason. I felt acutely the
misery of her situation ; and, as she sat silently before me,
after having poured forth, with the volubility of her genius,
the speech I have here copied, I felt myself restrained, by
some powerful feeling I could not describe, from arraying
the cold arguments of reason against the impulses of a feel-
ing lying, perhaps, deeper in human nature than the
boasted results of our coolest judgments. I could not, how-
ever, allow this opportunity to escape of impressing her
with a proper sense of the fallacy of those indications which
she had mistaken for the beginnings of the disease she so
much feared, and of satisfying her of a circumstance she
was entirely ignorant of — viz., that madness carried with it
no conviction of its presence ; but rather, on the contrary, a
scepticism of the actual condition of the patient, and a false
confidence of the possession of reason. This latter circum-
stance, which she received at once upon my authority
opened up to her mind some new views of her condition.
She saw, at once, the impossibility of her being able to
judge of the change she anticipated ; and trembled to
think that she might go mad and not know that she was
in the same melancholy situation as her sisters and mother.
I replied to her statements on this subject, that she might
rather consider it an amelioration of her condition to be
ignorant of the nature of her calamity — a proposition to
which she yielded a qualified assent ; while the fearful
doubt which it threw over all the workings of her conscious-
ness seemed to add to the misery of her feelings.

The new views of her situation which she drew from
the information thus procured, changed materially the
aspect of her mind. She seemed to give up that continual
watch over the rise and progress of her thoughts she had
persisted in for a long period of time; but the fear of
becoming mad did not abate in any perceptible degree.
I noticed, however, some time afterwards, that, in place of
shewing an anxiety to speak upon the subject which
occupied her mind, and produced in her so much alarm,
she shrunk from the slightest allusion to it. She gave up
entirely all mention of her mother and sisters, and did not
even ask me how they were. It appeared as if she wished
the melancholy catastrophe concealed, and all mention of
it suspended or renounced. I was much at a loss to
account for this change ; but I thought she now saw the
propriety of banishing from her mind all thoughts of the
fearful subject which had so long occupied it — a circum-
stance of the utmost importance to her ultimate safety ;

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

285

and I was hopeful that, if she kept herself actively oc-
cupied by her mental pursuits, she might escape the fate
which impended over her. I mentioned the subject oi
this favourable aspect of his daughter's situation to Mr
Warden, but was informed by him that, while he was also
well pleased with the change that had passed over her, he
was inclined to attribute it to a different cause. I now
ascertained that an English gentleman, of considerable
fortune, had some time before been introduced to the house
and having been struck (as indeed every individual was
who saw her) with her transcendent beauty and accomplish-
ments, had paid her great homage. I had met the
individual at the house ; and, on casting my mind back-
wards on some circumstances that had occurred in my
presence, I became satisfied that Mr Gordon had for some
time been enamoured of her ; and also that she had
regarded him with tokens of greater favour than she had
awarded to many visiters who seemed to vie with each
other in their claims on the attention of one so highly
gifted with the powers of communicating delight to all
around her. I did not forget in my reminiscences the
subject of the literary composition which I had so much
admired, and which had been to herself the cause of so
much mental disquietude. It occurred to me that the
occasion on which that piece was composed had been the
first impulse of her affection — a change from her prior state
of mind, sufficiently great to produce the illusion of a sup-
posed madness under which she laboured.

On the occasion of my next interview with her, I enjoyed
the advantage of possessing this key to her feelings. I
found her engaged in copying a miniature, which she excused
herself for not exhibiting to me. I could now trace with
considerable certainty the operations of her mind. She had
clearly contracted an affection for Mr Gordon, against her
own solemn resolutions. In her prior conversations with
me, she did not hesitate to avow her determination never
to enter into the state of marriage — reprehending warmly
the impolicy and cruelty of entailing upon a husband and a
family all the effects of a hereditary calamity, which ought
to be terminated in one generation. These were the dic-
tates of a wise judgment ; but her extreme susceptibility
had not been consulted when she formed these sentiments
and resolutions. The appearance of Mr Gordon a gentle-
man well calculated to call forth the affections of one who
had so much love to bestow, had produced an effect which
subverted all her principles of conduct, and even overcame,
at least for a time, her dreadful terror of becoming a victim
to her relentless family disease. I now saw plainly the
reason why she avoided the subject which used to form the
topic of our conversation. While her mind was unoccupied
with a stronger feeling, the former terror reigned supreme
and all-powerful ; but, after the heart had taken up the
cause of nature and instinct, against the factitious fears o.
a too susceptible mind, the right of domination was trans-
ferred to another and a gentler tyrant, whose sway was
necessarily exclusive of any other power. Her spirits now
seemed to be in the highest altitudes of her extremest
enthusiasm ; and, while I experienced all that delight I had
so often felt in the conversation of one so peculiarly gifted,
I wished from my heart that this new cause of excitement
might not be changed into an evil, the effects of which
might reach far beyond my worst anticipations.

Some time afterwards she sent for me. I called, and
found her confined to her room. She was in one of her
gloomy moods, appeared pale and spiritless, and was clearly
again under her relentless apprehension. She beckoned
me to sit near her.

" There is in our sex," she said, in a slow and tremulous
voice, •' a delicacy which covers up and conceals — as the
pigeon does by its wing, its wounded side — that feeling
which is the most natural affection of the heart. A woman

will not confess her love, till it be either gratified or over-
come. A week ago I was in the situation of others of my
sex, who have felt this peculiarity of female affection. You
found me on your last visit copying a miniature • but no
power on earth could have dragged from me then tlie admis-
sion that my heart had anticipated my pencil, and treasured
up the lineaments of that face. Since that day a change
has come over my mind. When was it that a woman was
destined to tremble at her own love ? When were the
workings of conscience directed against the purest passion
ot human nature ? When did a woman drag from her heart,
m opposition to the antagonist energies of her nature, that
most sacred of all secrets, for the very purpose of destroy-
ing it by that poison it shrinks from, and fears most as its
natural enemy— the breath of popular opinion ? You may
well conceive the state of a woman's mind when she thus
confesses an affection, which, in its still youthful vigour,
clings to the heart and will not quit it. You have seen Mi-
Gordon, and may have perceived that he was worthy of the
love of the fairest and best of our sex ; but his powers over
the heart of woman may be best known from the fact, that
he overturned for a time the resolutions of years, and
banished from my mind afll those feelings and sentiments
which have arisen from the circumstances of my extra-
ordinary situation, and been cherished and nourished by my
enthusiasm as well as by reason. The new impulse stag-
gered me by the sweet intoxication of its instinctive power.
Like a criminal, L secreted the gift of nature as a thing
stolen from man. My conscience rebelled against the
authority of my heart ; and my health has suffered from the
struggle."

She paused, apparently with the view of recovering
strength to proceed with her extraordinary communication.
I conceived that I now possessed an opportunity of declar-
ing my opinion, that marriage, in place of stimulating the
lurking mania, has rather a tendency to subdue it. I have
always found celibates more exposed to an attack of
hereditary madness than married individuals — a fact which
may not be considered consistent with the beneficence of
Providence, in so far as it tempts to a perpetuation of this
fearful entail ; but we have little authority to speak of
final causes, while we remain so ignorant as AVC are of the
true secret of the most common of the acts of nature. I,
therefore, conscientiously assured her, that, by entering
into a state of marriage with a man, and under circum-
stances, calculated to make her happy, (which, however, I
did not recommend,) she had many additional chances ot
avoiding the fate of her sisters. My opinion did not seem
to have much weight with her.

" Then," said she, " I would at least have but a chance
or two more added to a case nearly desperate. I cannot
isten to an argument whose conclusion is so impotent.
The original fact is insuperable. I cannot conceal from
myself, that I carry in the same veins that throb with this
unfortunate love, the subtle living principle of mania, ready
and eager to seize the opportunity of the first cerebral dis-
:urbance (and marriage itself might produce that) to unseat
reason and drive the economy of the mind into anarchy,
rebellion, and ruin. Mr Gordon has had the art to make me
ove him ; but I am betrothed to a fate which may assert its
srior right, and drag me from his arms, a maniac. The
very love which I have felt and still feel for this generous
stranger, rebels against the cruel purpose of allying him to
i calamity of such a fearful magnitude ; and is it not enough
hat I carry the demon coiled up in my own brain, but I
must send down through my blood to descendants, for
generations, its hereditary poison, to madden innocent, un-
:onscious beings, and quicken their tongues to vain cursings
•f their cruel, selfish ancestress ? I have expressed these sen-
imentsto you before ; and, O God ! how was it that, in the
ntoxication of a new feeling, I, for a time,, forgot them •

286

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

But they rose upon me in my first calm moment ; and the
greatest power that ever inspired the pen which has often
delineated to your declared satisfaction my enthusiastic
emotions, -would quail at the task of conveying a shadow of
the agony I endured in the struggle between my feelings
and my reason. My altered looks have more eloquence
than my speech, and the madness I have so long feared
may tell with its Babel tongue what reason renounces in
despair."

I asked her whether Mr Gordon had declared himself to
her, and whether he knew of the peculiar position of her
family.

" Great delicacy," she replied, " has prevented him hither-
to, heaven be praised ! from declaring to me in words the
state of his heart. He asked me, (doubtless the device of a
delicate lover,) to copy his miniature for him. Every trace
of my pencil was reflected by my heart. I rose from my work
to tremble at the change which had come over me ; I saw the
danger into which I was rushing, dragging with me an uncon-
scious victim to the shrine of our family Moloch, and called
up fortitude enough to request my father to convey to him
the original and the copy. He is, comparatively, a stranger in
these parts, and may be, as I think he is, ignorant of the
misfortune that haunts our unhappy house. This idea
stung me reproachfully. I looked upon myself as a deceiver,
occupied in throwing the toils round the body of a generous,
unsuspecting victim. I was conscious of being incapable of
proceeding to any serious extent without informing him of
the danger that awaited him ; but I shuddered as I thought
that his heart might already be committed in ignorance of
what should have been communicated on the very threshold
of his affection ; but, oh ! how fervently have I returned
thanks to heaven for the timeous interference, for his safety
and mine, of the powers of my better judgment ! Now at
least the paramount evil shall be eschewed, whatever may
become of this heart ; and, oh ! better that it should break
with the grief of my own stifled passion, than with the
agony of a husband looking with eyes that know not the
relief of tears on the insane heirs of a mad mother."

There was, generally, in all the conversations of this
young woman, such a mixing up of strong feelings and
rational arguments, that I was always at a loss to answer
her in such a way as to yield satisfaction either to myself or
her. No reason appeared of much importance to her,
unless, like her own thoughts, it was accompanied with the
necessary garnish of feeling or sentiment. In the present
instance, I was in greater difficulty than I had ever felt in
her presence. Her own arguments against marriage were,
besides being deeply rooted in her mind, too well founded
in reason to admit of my conscientiously endeavouring to
refute them ; and, besides., I had no right to implicate, by my
interference, the rights and happiness of a third individual,
*Mr Gordon, Avho had perhaps a greater interest in the affair
than the lady herself. On the other hand, I too plainly
perceived that her heart was affected by a strong passion ;
and, from what I knew of her mental constitution, I was
satisfied that the greatest danger, both to her mind and
body, must inevitably result from an affection of so peculiar
a nature remaining ungratified ; or rather being attempted,
by the struggles of an opposing reason, to be stifled in the
heart itself. The excitement produced by such a conflict,
or the depression consequent upon the death of the passion,
was sufficient to realize the anticipated danger of her
hereditary .disease. There was thus great reason for the
apprehension of evil on either side ; and I felt that all that
I could safely do in her behalf was to endeavour to keep
her mind as calm as possible, and wait the issues of time,
either in affording her new lights, or in carrying off the
deep impression apparently made on her heart by one whose
avocations might require his absence from that part of the
country. I endeavoured, accordingly, to impress her with

the expediency of keeping her mind occupied ; and recom-
mended to her several subjects for the employment of her
pen, in executing which she would find relief from tlu
morbid thoughts that occupied her mind.

On calling two days afterwards, I understood from hci
father that Mr Gordon had construed the return of his
miniature and the copy through the hands of her parent as
an indication that she did not regard him favourably, and
had accordingly returned on the previous day to England.
This fact had been communicated to her by her father. I
was unable to form any probable guess of the effect this
would produce on a mind so peculiarly constituted. Her
father seemed to be rather well pleased at the circumstance,
and was resolved not to allow his daughter to be again
exposed to the action of feelings which seemed to threaten
the overthrow of her reason. I was inclined to be of
opinion that the absence of Mr Gordon might prove bene-
ficial ; but I was doubtful of the mode of his withdrawal,
which, being imputed to a rejection by one whose heart wag
altogether occupied by a strong passion for him, might pro-
duce a feeling of having acted cruelly and ungratefully — a
state of the female mind too favourable to the increase of
an affection.

Upon my entering the apartment, my fears were partially
realized. She was confined to bed. She was ill : a high
pulse, flushed face, and restless eyes betokened an excite-
ment of the system of the greatest danger to one so
peculiarly situated.

" My father has informed me," she said, almost imme-
diately on recognising me, "that Mr Gordon is gone to
England. This has produced in me a mixed feeling of
satisfaction and regret. I am pleased I have escaped the
danger I so much dreaded, of visiting on the heads of others
and perpetuating a calamity that ought to end in one gene-
ration ; but I am grieved to think that my motives should
have been misconstrued by one I cannot but love and
admire. He has imputed, doubtless, to a feeling of unworthy
pride and disdain what ought to have been attributed to
affection and generosity ; but he is innocent of any wish to
misconstrue my conduct or depreciate my motives ; and he
is now, perhaps, suffering the pangs of a rejected and de-
spised affection, at the very moment when I am tortured by
the thought of being considered ungrateful and cruel to tht
object on whom my heart still dotes. Was ever mortal
exposed to such ingeniously-contrived misery ? Is there no
mode by which this can be remedied ? Is it not possible
yet to convey to him the true cause of my rejection of his
proffered suit — that it was affection itself that rose in arms
against the cruelty I meditated against a noble, generous-
minded man ? Were he satisfied of this, my mind would
be relieved ; and the burning fever that threatens to
stimulate the poison of my hereditary disease, may be
quenched before reason is precipitated from her throne.
You are my friend, you are also my doctor ; in both
capacities, I ask you, I implore you, to devise some means
of taking from my brain this burden which threatens to
crush it to ruins as bleak and terrible as the fragments of
that melancholy wreck which has overtaken the minds of
my mother and sisters. Know you the part of England to
which he has gone ? His father's seat is near the Borders.
He may be there. What can I suggest ? I cannot ask
my father to write to him — I cannot write myself. Relieve
me of the thought of devising a remedy for this pressing
evil. There, are many things which the kindness of friends
can supply, when no powers are left to us to help ourselves ;
and I rely on your friendship, wMch I have ever found sin-
cere and unchangeable."

T told her that I would consider of some means of reliev-
ing her mind from the burden which lay upon it. She
seized my hand as I replied, and pressed it fervently, as if
she meant, by that mode of expression of her feelings, to

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

287

impress me AVI th the deep importance of the commission
with which she had intrusted me. I was somewhat at a
loss for a proper construction of her conduct. I Avas aAvare
of the effect Avhich a sense of ingratitude would produce
upon a mind so generous as hers, and so fraught Avith the
nicest delicacies of the most elevated of her sex ; and yet
I secretly imagined, that there Avas present, as an additional
cause of unhappiness, the regret of the lover at the loss of
the object of her affections — a thought that bore ia upon
me, in spite of all the faith I had in. the sincerity of her
views regarding marriage, and in the generosity of those
sentiments that dictated the Avish to avoid implicating
another in the calamity to which she Avas exposed. I Avent
and consulted Avith her father whether her extraordinary
wish should be complied Avith. He was not partial to an
exposure of the misfortunes of his family, and asked me
whether I thought any danger might result to his daughter
from a refusal of her request. I answered that I thought
every reasonable measure should be taken to allay the
excitement of her mind ; and, seeing that the circumstance
of their family calamity Avas already well known, and
probably even in the knoAvledge of Mr Gordon himself,
no great evil could accrue from this divulgement ; while, if
I Avere enabled to declare to her upon my sincerity that
her wish had been fulfilled, great hopes might be entertained
of the sedative effects of time restoring her to her wonted
condition of mind and body. My answer Avas satisfactory ;
but he suggested that the communication should not be
made in A\rriting, but at a personal interview Avith Mr
Gordon, Avho Avould come from his father's, in Cumberland,
upon a short notice that his presence Avas requested in
this quarter. I concurred in this suggestion, and under-
took to make the necessary explanations.

I accordingly wrote to Mr Gordon, requesting him to
take the trouble of visiting me within as short a period as
his avocations Avould permit, and, in the meantime, I
called again upon my patient. She Avas still very feverish,
and her excitement had not in any degree abated. She
\sked me, the moment I entered, whether I had taken any
measure for the relief of her mind. I ansAvered that I had
written for Mr Gordon to visit me, and expected him in a
feAV days, Avhen I would make the necessary communication
to him personally.

" I am beholden to you," she cried, <f in a life of thanks
and blessings, for this exhibition of your friendship. Why
should your profession limit its range to the use of physical
medicaments ? You have done more for the return of my
health by this application of a moral remedy, than if you
had prescribed for me all the secrets of your dispensary.
My conscience shall be relieved, and I can, as I haA'e
hitherto done, reflect Avith pleasure on that nobility of senti-
ment which it is my pride to retain sacred and uninjured
amidst all the perils of a bad world, and Avhich, if it ever
perish, I could wish to fall in the ruins of the mind itself.
But Avhat if he wish to see me, and cast over me. again the
charm AA'hich has produced all this misery ? Counsel me
freely. Can I trust myself in his presence, even with the
guard of that frightful kno\vledge he is soon to receive ?
Why should I tremble at the intercourse of liberal senti-
ment Avith the man I still admire, Avhen it shall be under-
stood that Ave cannot be united ? Is not this a weakness
unworthy of me, Avhich I should endeavour to overcome, as
an enemy to the happiness I might experience in the society
of so noble a man ? Yet I know best the poAArers of my
own mind and heart. Hitherto I have relied upon the
dictates of my OAvn judgment, Avhich has never failed me
even in the emergency of love. Will you tell me" (looking
anxiously in my face) " whether Mr Gordon Avishes again to
see Isabella Warden?"

I informed her that I Avould compiy Avith her request.
I Avas noAV rather confirmed in my former idea, that love

still held an ascendancy over her judgment, however she
might flatter herself that she had conquered the insidious
pOAver. On returning home, I found a letter from Mr
Gordon, saying he Avould visit me Avithin two clays. He
came accordingly, apparently with better will than I had to
ask him. He suspected that the object I had in vieAv was
in some degree connected Avith the family of Mr Warden ;
and Love had lent him the use of his Avings. After being
seated, I opened to him, by a preliminary statement, the
subject of my communication, and, as I proceeded with my
interesting recital — recounting the calamity Avhich had be-
fallen Mr Warden's family, the beauty and noble-minded-
ness of Isabella, her reason for rejecting his suit, and her

request that he should be made aware of that reason I

watched carefully the effect produced on him. I perceived
nothing but satisfaction on his countenance as I approached
the delicate part of my narrative, and Avas surprised to hear
him state, in answer, that he was all along Avell aAvare of
the calamity under Avhich Mr Warden's family laboured ;
but that such was the effect produced on his mind by the
transcendent beauty, great mental parts, delightful man-
ners, and nobility of mind of Miss Warden, that he had
resolved, in the event of his suit being accepted, to run all
hazards, and marry this incomparable woman. It Avas
scarcely necessary for me to ascertain, by a question, whether
he wished to see her. His affection for her, he declared,
was stronger than ever.

Within a feAV hours after, I called on Isabella. I com-
municated to her the import of the conversation I had had
Avith Mr Gordon. My statement produced in her mind a
great conflict of feelings ; and I never had greater reason to
fear the effects of her excitement than I had on that occa-
sion.

" HOAV is this heart to be resolved ?" she said, Avith great
anxiety of countenance, and an agitation that shook her
delicate frame. " The reasons and arguments of years of
meditation seem to lose in my mind their accumulated
force, and I tremble at a change over Avhich I have no
control. My mental efforts are palsied by the sense of
what I OAve to the man Avho has said he Avill dare all the
evils that accompany my fate, and, for my Avorthless sake,
risk the mighty stake of his happiness for life. His love
for me Avas nothing to this declared resolution. What
shall aid my judgment in resisting the force of one gener-
ous heart on another ? You knoAV, sir, my sentiments on
marriage. Shall I depute you to request him not to ask to
see me ? — say, my friend, shall I supplicate his return
instantly to Cumberland ? Yet, O God ! Avhat a reAvard
Avould that be for such unparalleled generosity of soul ! — I
must, I feel I must, thank him. Surely so poor a boon as
thanks cannot make me bankrupt in my prudential resolves.
But I can deliver to you no message. You have heard me
— I have scarcely heard myself. Oh, my poor heart ! — break
— break, or be resolved !"

As she concluded this speech, which seemed to be merely
the outspoken workings of her mind, in its efforts to come
to some conclusion, she reclined backAArards, much exhausted.
I could easily perceive the bent of her inclinations. I
gazed upon the beautiful victim of a state of mental con-
stitution and feelings in all respects so extraordinary- I
saw plainly that she loved ardently, and that her love had
aU»but conquered those determinations against marriage that
had resulted as Avell from her morbid fancies as from her
legitimate conclusions of prudence and high-mindedness.
I never saAV one, and may never again see one, in the same
position. She looked upon me as if I were the arbiter of
her fate ; her beautiful countenance exhibited all the traces
of mental agony ; and the piteous and supplicatory glances
of her black eyes, as she occasionally Avithdrew them from
my face, fixed them on the ground, "and lifted them again
to beseech, Avith their mute eloquence of prayer my assist-

288

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

ance in resolving her extraordinary doubt — went to my very
soul. I was now, however, better prepared for answering
her, because I now saw that there was less danger in restrain-
ing an affection so strong as hers, than in gratifying it by a
union with the man of her affections.

" Your heart, Isabella," said I, taking up her last words,
" shall not break. It shall be bound up with the cords of a
pure affection — a sanctified love. You must give Mr
Gordon something else than thanks for coming from Cum-
berland to renew a suit that you had rejected without a
word of explanation. He is, indeed, a noble individual, and
calculated to make you happy."

" You fill me with shuddering apprehensions," she cried,
hysterically. " What is this ? Are all the resolutions of a
life crumbling down in the view of a trembling, inane, palsied
consciousness ? Is love stronger than the convictions of
the last victim of five wedded to our family Genius of Evil ?
But does he know that I am the last of five ? Are you sure
that that generous man knows the dreadful truth ? Speak,
my friend — assure me of that — there is in it some secret
medicinal balm whose virtues I feel stealing about this
aching heart."

" He knows all, Isabella," replied I, " and will venture
all for the great love he bears to her he conceives to be the
noblest of her sex. Excuse me — I use his words. Flattery
belongs not to my profession."

As I said these words, her excitement seemed to abate,
and she reclined gently on the couch on which she sat, with
her eyes fixed on the wall of the apartment, and her face
exhibiting the traces of a soft pensiveness, mixed with an
expression of a pleasant resignation to some power she had
resisted and could no longer resist. She remained in this
position for some time, and I waited the issue of the work-
ings of her peculiar mind. At last she turned and fixed
her eyes upon my countenance. A clear tear had collected,
and stood glistening, like a pearl on a ball of jet. She
held out her hand and placed it in mine.

" Shall it be ?" she said, in a voice that sounded in my
ear like soft music; and the tear fell with the words.

I paused in my reply, not from any doubt of what I
ought to say, but because I felt the extraordinary power
over the future fortunes of so beautiful a creature, placed
in my hands, as a responsibility entirely new to me, and,
therefore, more serious than that to which we are accustomed
in our position as medical advisers. She appeared to drink
up my very looks — she wished and feared, anticipated and
trembled — the blood came and went, and the tear started
and dried up, as the two antagonist emotions alternated their
energies over her heart.

" Isabella," said I, holding her hand, " you attempted
what was beyond the power of even a cold-hearted, calcu-
lating woman, and far more beyond the power of one so
gifted as you are with the finer sensibilities and suscepti-
bilities of the female heart. You were made for love, and you
might as well try to live without the nourishment of nature,
as to choke the natural passion which glows in your heart
with the appliance of a cold result of judgment. Sorely,
Isabella, have you miscalculated the powers of female affec-
tion."

" Alas ! it is true !" she muttered, with a deep-drawn
sigh, and reclining her head again upon the couch pillow.
" In this hour do I feel the vanity of all my accumulated
resolutions of many years. I thought I was fighting for the
cause of humanity, for the well-being of generations to come,
for the diminution of physical evil, for God's goodness and
man's benefit. Where — where are all my high aspirations
now ? Alas ! how nearly allied are the greatest virtue and
the greatest weakness ! I had thought my cause an affair
of the heart ; but, ah ! there was a power there before the
one I placed in it as sovereign ruler — and now I feel its
paramount strength."

She sighed deeply as she told the issue of all her high and
noble purposes. Turning her eyes again upon me —

" When is he to call ?" she asked, with a blush that
spread up over her temples.

" When I give him notice," replied I.

" And when will that be ?" she added, with a naivete that
forced a smile from me, which she instantly observed, and
then tried to correct herself.

" I mean — I mean," she continued, with a broken voice,
and a renewal of her blush — " when do you think I should
see him — if — if — it is your opinion that I should — that it is
proper for me to see him ?"

And her breast heaved with convulsive energy as she
again threw a doubt over the fulfilment of her destiny. At
that moment Mr Gordon entered along with her father. I
was not prepared for this ; but Mr Gordon's passion had
mastered his judgment, and he could not wait the issue of
my interview. Hushing forward, he fell on his knees before
the couch. Isabella lifted her head. It fell on the bosom
of her lover. Distinct sobs burst from her bosom. The
triumph of nature was complete — their tears mixed, and
heaving respirations told eloquently the workings of their
hearts. Taking Mr Warden suddenly by the arm, I hurried
him out of the room.

In the afternoon, I called again, and dined with the
family. An entire change had come over the mind of
Isabella. The struggle over, and nature having triumphed,
she was like one relieved from bondage and captivity, and
brought out to luxuriate in the rays of the sun and the
sweets of natural liberty. Her brilliant fancy, bursting from
behind the cloud which had shaded its splendour, exhibited
all the gay and shining lights of her extraordinary genius.
One by one, every subject started was taken up and rolled
in the stream of effulgence that poured from her imagina-
tion, and made to reflect the varied hues, like precious
stones turned in the sunbeams,, so as to bring all the angles
into luminous and never-ceasing changes of reflection.
Capturing with ease the minds of all, she led us where she
pleased — into academic groves, poetic gardens, and Elysiac
bowers ; and, infusing into us the spirit by which she was
herself animated, transformed us for a time into new beings,
gifted with newpowers and new susceptibilities of enjoyment.
Such are the effects of genius. I gazed upon the lovely
enchantress with admiration. Mr Gordon's eye was illumi-
nated with delight ; and her father's countenance, though
occasionally shaded with doubts as to the true import or
effect of such elevation of spirits and powers of fancy,
exhibited the pleasure and satisfaction of a fond parent.
Why do I dwell on this scene ? Some time afterwards,
Mr Gordon led Miss Warden to the altar. They lived at
the house of Mr Warden, I continued to be their family-
surgeon, and often witnessed the happiness of their union,
which was never disturbed by any attack of the disease,
which had produced so much terror to the heiress of in-
sanity. They never had any children — a circumstance
which reconciled her more and more to the marriage
condition, and did not diminish the happiness of her hus-
band.

WILSON'S

wal, ^ralutionarg, anlr 3£mastnatfl»»

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

IT may be doubted whether any country, ancient or modern,
ever presented the features exhibited by Great Britain.
Almost every other country has, from the beginning, pos-
sessed either an agricultural or commercial character — at
least a character in which the ascendency of one of these
interests has been so well marked, that the manners and
customs of the people have been regulated by it — shewing
either family pride or the love of mercantile wealth as the
predominating sentiment or motive of action. This country
is, perhaps, passing from one of these states to the other —
once a land of chivalry, it is becoming, as Bonaparte said,
a country of merchants, and may at present be said to be
in that situation in which a new power arising from a new
estimate of the social optimum (riches) is busy fighting
witli the old regulating sentiment of what was considered
the greatest good, (family honour,) and, we may hope, in
the act of overcoming it. The pride of honesty and good-
ness is alone the legitimate sentiment of human nature, on
which fallen man has any title to plume himself; and it
will be a happy day for this country, when to him who
Bays, " I had a grandfather who was an honest man," shall
be awarded the palm of superiority over him who boasts of
having a forbear who was a knight. We may all of us
see the incorporated personification of this struggle well
represented by the jealousy of the two great towns, Edin-
burgh and Glasgow, which respectively claim and boast of
the presiding genii of mercantile prosperity and baronial
pride. Whatever may be said of the merits of the question
of superiority, there can be no doubt of at least this one
fact in the argument, that, while the prim scions of nobility
are perhaps diminishing, at all events not increasing, either
in numbers, honours, or wealth, the sons of commerce are,
year after year, multiplying in a ratio that is wonderful,
and vindicating with a force that is every day increasing
their right to as high a scale in the moral world as honour,
industry, and integrity can achieve. We are led to make
these remarks by the morale of a story which we are now
to lay before our readers — involving the question of the
tomparative value of family pride and honest industry, as
these were exhibited in two natives of these respective
towns ; and, moreover, deciding it on what we think fail-
principles of justice. So, without farther preface, we say
that, a good number of years since, there lived in the barony
of Gorbals, which may now be considered as a part of
Glasgow, two widows who had for a long time been near
neighbours, and, on that account, as well, perhaps, as from
the sympathy of equal poverty, became intimate companions
or gossips. The one was called Marion Gemmel, and the
other Mrs Douglas. Simple as these designations are,
there may yet be observed in their forms that difference
which even poverty struggles to discover and mark as an
indication of some distinction of birth or breeding, where
humble want would seem to level all. The distinction,
though made by the neighbours in mere words of address,
was, however, derived from a difference of sentiment and
manners in the individuals. Mrs Douglas was in reduced
circumstances, while Widow Gemmel had never been higher
141 VOL. III.

than she then was. The former was the daughter of an
Edinburgh writer, who boasted of some relationship to the
Grahams of Kincardine, though a genealogical tree of no
ordinary ramifications would have scarcely sufficed to point
out the precise degree. He died as poor as the tribe to
which he belonged (notwithstanding of all their sordid
fleecing of the lieges) generally do, leaving nothing to his
daughter but a vague idea of a relationship to a once great
family, without the ability of satisfying herself where her
honour lay — whether in the main stem of the tree, or on
the tip of some collateral twig, which had descended so far
down as to take root again in the earth. She had married,
when very young, one of her father's clerks, a person of the
name of Douglas, whose noble name had served to set him
a-climbing (in his day-dreams) the same genealogical tree,
which he found anything but that with the golden branches,
which, Virgil says, stands in the vestibule of Satan's domin-
ions. Urged on by his professional love of litigation and
his hereditary family ambition, he instituted a claim for the
property of Kilquhandy, which lies in Lanarkshire, and
was once possessed by a person of the name of Douglas, to
whom he thought himself related ; but he died just when
he had set the case fairly agoing, and left his widow and
one child to get themselves placed on the green table,
and prosecute their family rights in the best manner they
could.

After her husband died, Mrs Douglas was reduced to great
poverty. Neither her father nor husband left her any means
of livelihood. Some friends took so much interest in her un-
fortunate condition, as to get her daughter placed on the
poors'-roll of the Court of Session, as claimant of Kilquhandy,
in place of her father ; and the process was left to proceed
with that degree of speed with which all poor people's law
pleas are conducted by " the agents of the poor." As many
years behoved to pass before this plea could be brought to a
termination, and as she and her daughter were utterly desti-
tute of the means of life, she had left her " process" in the
hands of her agents, and proceeded to the Gorbals to suppli-
cate some relief from a relation of her mother's, who lived in
that quarter. In this she partially succeeded ; but the boon
of alms was given in the humiliating form of in- door work,
furnished from a neighbouring manufactory ; so that the
daughter and widoiv of a writer, and the mother of the
claimant of the property of Kilquhandy, was reduced to the
necessity of applying herself to manual labour for procuring
the necessary support for herself and daughter. Though,
however, an "operative" in the Gorbals of Glasgow, she was
never herself, nor did she wish any of her gossips to be,
for an instant oblivious of the height from which she
had fallen ; and continually contrived to keep up a floating
knowledge of the two great and important truths — first,
that she was the daughter aud widow of an Edinburgh
writer ; and, secondly, that she was the mother of the claim-
ant of Kilquhandy.

Next door to Mrs Douglas lived the humble widow,
Gemmel, who, originally the daughter, subsequently the
wife, and now the mother of an operative, had never known
either the ups or downs of life. Without any ambition to
rise higher than the lowly situation in which fate had placed
her, she was freed from the fears of falling, because she had

290

TALES OP THE BORDERS

no distance to fall. When her husband (who occupied a
situation in the same manufactory from which Mrs Douglas
received her in-door work) died, she was supported hy the
proprietor by getting work, until her only son came to be able
to fill the place of his father. Gifted with simple manners,
and that strong common sense which is often strongest in
its natural state, and, like the rock crystal, is only dimmed
and weakened by grinding, she possessed, as well as her
genlcel neighbour, a species of pride, peculiar to the humble
votary of contented industry. If her neighbour was proud
of her connection with men of family and of the law, she
upheld the plea of the working bees against that of the un-
productive drones ; in opposition to the assumed superiority
of Edinburgh over Glasgow, she maintained the cause of
the filling hive, against the paper nests of the furacious and
predatory wasps ; and that the mother of an industrious
operative (her son) was a more honourable and more useful
personage than the tutorial mother of the green-table claim-
ant of a property to which, perhaps, she had no right.

The two widows, having thus certain personal claims to
importance and utility to support and argue, lived in a
kind of pacific state of restrained war. Their intercourse
was, apparently, friendly ; yet there was always a ground
swell, resulting from some commotion of the day before ;
and, though there never appeared any broken waves, there
was never an absolute calm. An under current of affection
between the son and daughter had, however, for some time
been flowing more evenly than is generally the case with the
course of true love, and seemed to be altogether independent
of the troubles at the surface. An intimacy had ripened into
an affection ; and William and Margaret, disregarding, or not
comprehending the scope of their mothers' disputations on the
subject of their comparative importance, found all the ine-
qualities of birth and prospects levelled, by the sympathy of
two young hearts. It was in vain that she was told that she
was the representative of the Douglases of Kilquhandy, and
herself the claimant of that valuable estate ; for, so long as she
saw her mother engaged in the same occupation as the
mother of her companion, she could not doubt that she Avas
acting within her station when she thus disposed of her
affections. The two were, indeed, suited for each other by
Nature ; who, disregarding the factitious circumstance of
birth, had bestowed upon them equally her very best favour:
— having awarded to them both all the physical attributes
requisite for forming agreeable persons, and that love and
respect for virtue which is the foundation of all good. 1\
left free to pursue the path of humble industry, they could
not fail, with the sentiments they possessed, of arriving at
independence and happiness ; but it is not always that the
frumers of good intentions, or the possessors of virtuous
sentiments and amiable feelings, are left in this world to
work out the condition of their own independent existence,
freed from the restraints and trammels imposed on them by
others, who arrogate over them a natural or factitious right
of authority.

The intimacy of these two companions, or rather lovers
was not unknown to both their mothers. William's parem
was favourable to the connection, because she saw that
while her son was gradually rising in the confidence of hi
employer, and would soon be able to maintain a wife, he
could nowhere find a more virtuous or amiable helpmate
than the interesting daughter of her neighbour. She had
however, her own doubts whether the proud scion of an
honourable family would be favourable to the match — anc
these were well justified by the sentiments of that indi
vidual. Mrs Douglas was decidedly against the connection
and had long viewed it with unpleasant feelings. She hat
been bold enough to discountenance, openly, the approachei
of other lovers of the same grade, and, among the rest, om
William Gibson, a companion of William's; but the friendly
intercourse she kept up with her nearest neighbour ha

hitherto prevented her from alluding to the circumstance
of this attachment, which produced to her so much pain.
She was not sure of trusting, altogether, to the duty of hex
daughter, or to the result of her efforts to work upon her
feelings, by laying before her plans of future greatness, and
filling her with the hope of getting her paternal inheritance
through a successful issue of her law-plea. She, therefore,
resolved upon approaching the subject in some collateral
way, in her first conversation with her neighbour. Having
prepared herself, by conjuring up all the ideas she thought
herself entitled to entertain of her birthrights and prospects,
and contrasting them with the humble, or, as. she called
them, mean condition of those with whom she had thus,
by contrary fate, been forced for a time to associate, she
invited herself to take tea with her friend, (by courtesy,)
and soon entered upon the important subject.

•f I have been obliged to take the strong hand with your
son's companion, William Gibson," said she to Marion,
pretending utter ignorance of William's courtship. " Your
Glasgow folks" (attempting to smile)" are brave wooers; and
some of the moneyed merchants may be excused for trying
to mix their wealth with the honours of our Edinburghers ;
but it is a very — truly a very different thing — when opera-
tives, such as William Gibson, imitate their masters, and
pay court to a young maiden of blood, merely because, alas !
her poor mother is in reduced circumstances. I put a
rapid stop to that affair, however, and I presume the young
man will never have the assurance to repeat his bold pro-
ject, or indeed to visit again my humble, but, I hope, tem-
porary home."

" What said ye to William Gibson ?" replied Marion,
looking with some amazement on the bold author of an
innuendo that struck her so closely. " Did ye tell him that
Glasgow bluid is no sae clear as the honourable stream that
warms the veins and nerves the pen-driving hands o' the
folks o' Edinburgh ?"

" Perhaps I did, Marion," said Mrs Douglas ; " but
that is a subject on which we seldom agree. After Edin-
burgh became the seat o* the court, (for, in former times, the
kings held their courts in various parts of the kingdom,)
there cannot be a doubt that the inhabitants underwent a
great change. The Canongate, and a great part of the
High Street, and even some parts of the Cowgate, were
inhabited by knights and nobles, who not only served as a
stock for the honourable race who afterwards, and even
yet inhabit that city, but taught the inhabitants genteel
manners, and infused into their minds Jdgh feelings. From
that stock came both my husband and father. Glasgow
was never the seat o' a court. The kings never went neai
it — your first and last king was the god of lucre ; and
where then is the wonder that you are inferior to us in
everything that goes to make a genteel member of society ?
I will never be contented with less than an Edinburgh
gentleman for Margaret Douglas."

" If ye want thin bluid — that is, I fancy, clear and pure
bluid — in the veins o' Margaret's lover," replied Marion,
" ye are quite richt to hae recourse to a puir Edinburgh
gentleman, and then she's sure o' arrivin at the high office
o' fillin pirns i' the Gorbals o' Glasgow, as her mither has
dune afore her. They say that foul bluid runs back i' the
veins o' nobility — yours hasna sent ye muckle forrit. If
you had married a Glasgow weaver when ye buckled wi*
Mr Douglas, ye micht hae been the mistress o' a hunder
servants, and ridin in yer carriage ; but then the carriage
would hae wanted a coat o' arms — and wha would sit in a
carriage wi' a plain panel?"

" I and my daughter, Marion," said Mrs Douglas,
" have even yet a better chance of riding in a carriage
with a coat of arms, (by and through my having been
married to a gentleman,) than by Margaret's marriage with
an operative."

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

291

" That will be when ye get Kilquhandy, I fancy," replied
Marion, smiling. " That's been a lang plea. Thae agents
for the puir are lang o' gettin the awmous frae the deep
pouches o' the Lords. But ye forget, Mrs Douglas, that, if
William Gibson, or ony o' his equals, ever did (and it's no
unlikely) rise to the ability o' gien your dochter, Peggy, a
eoach, he would be the proud master o' his ain fortune, and
no ae inch o' his elevation would be gained by standin on
the tap o' a green table."

" There is no dishonour, Marion," said Mrs Douglas —
" for I will not quarrel with you, though you are going
beyond the bounds of civility — there's no dishonour in
begging a staff wherewith to assert your paternal rights.
When Margaret gets Kilquhandy, she will pay the court
the fees out of her rents, and" (smiling knowingly) u there
may be something to spare for doing good to a poor friend.
You know what I mean, Marion."

"• Ou ay," replied Marion ; " ye mean that, because you
nre a beggar, I should be ane too ; but, sae lang as the thick
and foul Glasgow bluid that runs in the veins o' my William
makes his heart beat wi' the luve he bears to his mither,
and the pride o' honesty and independence, I'll hae nae
need o' alms frae the rents o' Kilquhandy. But when do
ye talc possession, Mrs Douglas?" (smiling.)

" When the Lords decide in my favour, Marion," said
the other, seriously ; " and then it will be time enough for
Margaret looking out for a husband among the neighbouring
lairds. A Graham or a Douglas would, be preferable ; I
would like to keep up the name and lineage. You should
look out for some decent wife for William, Marion ; for he,
you know, has no estate to wait for. His hands are his
fortune ; and a wife, by joining hers, may make twenty
fingers — and the more tools the better. I told William
Gibson that he should get a working wife, and the same
advice applies to your William. I know no greater curse
to a tradesman than a genteel wife, and no greater curse to
a genteel wife than a tradesman. Genteel blood and com-
mon blood will not run together. An Arabian blood and
the English plough -drawer are ill-mated, and make a
crooked furrow."

" The furrows o' Kilquhandy will be even enough, I
fancy," replied Marion, somewhat nettled at the degrading
tendency of these remarks. " They say better a crooked fur-
row than a ravelled pirn. — meanin, I fancy, that ill -ploughed
land is better than a dangerous trade ; and wishin you
muekle guid o' Kilquhandy and a guid husband to Margaret,
I'll e'en let William choice a wife for himsel, remindin him
o' the auld proverb, that the man wha sits on the silk goun-
tail o' the wife wha's tocher bought it, never sits easy. The
tradesman wha maks his siller and buys his wife, is a king ;
and he wha buys his siller, by makin his body the price o'
the purchase, is a slave."

The conversation of the two widows here ended ; and Mrs
Douglas went home in the conviction that she had laid a
good foundation for putting an end to the ignoble attach-
ment which her daughter had formed for the humble
operative. When she went in, she found Margaret sitting
by the fire ; and told her, with the abruptness of a full-
charged mind, that she had been in, arranging with Marion
Gemmel the best way of putting an entire stop to the
intimacy that still (notwithstanding of all her exertions to
end it) existed between her and the son of a weaver, and a
weaver himself. She told her that Widow Gemmel also
saw the impropriety of a match between her son and one
who carried in her veins the blood of two honourable
families, and who, at that very moment, was a competitor
for the wide domain of Kilquhandy, if not the fee-simple
proprietor, seeing that a decision was expected in the case
immediately, and might already be pronounced. The un-
happy girl replied nothing to her mother, who, she knew,
was a stern, tyrannical woman ; but her duty and fears did

not prevent her from heaving a deep sigh, as she contem-
plated this new barrier, which the mother of her lover had
assisted in rearing against the happiness of her son. She
had appointed to meet William on the following night, on
the banks of the Clyde, at a thorn-hedge, which stood for
many a year on the green which is now occupied by the
beautiful street called Carlton Place; and all the impassioned
thoughts she had been busy clothing with the never-varying
words of a lover, were changed for fearful anticipations of
evil, if not for a fancied declaration of William, who, as a
dutiful son, might sacrifice her to the obligations which were
due to a parent.

Next night she hastened to the appointed place, where
she found her lover waiting for her, dressed, as was his
custom, in his best suit— a tribute of respect, which the
purity of his love suggested, as due to one whom he reckoned
as his superior.

" Did you not tell me, William," said she, as he received
her in his arms, " that your mother was favourable to our
affection ; and who could have doubted the truth of a
statement which appeared so consistent with all reasonable
expectation ? That my mother should be against us was
natural, because she expects that I am to be a fine lady, and
mistress of a great estate ; but I never could have supposed
that my expected good fortune could have formed a reason for
your mother endeavouring to prevent her son from marrying
one who has such prospects."

" You speak in parables, Margaret," replied the yonth ;
" I hae heard naething o' this frae my mother, wha conceals
frae her son nae mair than he keeps frae her — and that is
naething. Your mother never hinted at our attachment ,
though, doubtless, it's mair than likely she thought she hit
it a deadly blow, bysaying she had rejected the suit o' William
Gibson, wha wasna fit to be the husband o' her wha is yet to
be leddie o' Kilquhandy, and the wife o' a Douglas or a
Graham. Gibson told me, an hour ago, that she called on
his mother and repeated the same statement to her — my
name being used for his. This is just a complaisant way o'
tellin us a' that you're no fitted for the wife o' a tradesman,
and maun become the prize (and a valuable prize ye will
be) o' some o' the gentles o' the land. It canna be denied,
Margaret, that your mother is against us."

"Ah, I know that too well," cried Margaret. " And who,
then, can be^br us with effect? If your mother, William,
were against your attachment to me, what would you do ?
There is a question ; and, before you answer it, consider that
your reply will regulate the conduct and fate of Margaret
Douglas. I love and cherish my parent, as in duty bound and
by feeling led; but all the affection I have ever felt and shewn
to my mother, falls immeasurably short of the love I have seen
cherished by you towards honest Marion Gemmel. The
strength of your affection for your mother and for me, will tell
you, in the language of heart-burning pain, what it is to dis-
obey the one or to lose the other. Say, speak vith your ac-
customed boldness and generosity — my fate is in your hands."

"Ah, Margaret, Margaret," replied he, " the question you
hae put to me, is a hard, a cruel, a difficult one. Ye hae
placed me between love an' duty — I might say, though it be
not the language o' ordinary life, between misery and hap-
piness, death and life. I canna answer ye. The question
has come upon me wi' the suddenness and effect o' the shin-
nin levin. I am confused and bewildered between the
choice o' being a guid son, at a' hazards, cherishin and com-
forting an aged parent, wha has reared me and defended me
amidst the storms o' adversity ; arid being a happy lover,
repayin the affection o' Margaret Douglas wi' alove as strong
as her ain. Yet, Margaret, bewildered as I am by your ques-
tion, I fear I wadna be lang in seein the clear path o' my
duty ; but I canna think on't — and God be praised there's
nae necessity that I should, at this moment, place our hap-
[ mness or misery upon a choice which neither you nor T

292

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

may be called upon to make ! We will wait. Your mother
may relent ; and let us hope the best."

" My mother will never relent, William," said Margaret,
beginning to weep ; " you have said you would not be long
in seeing the clear path of your duty. I understand you,
William. A son's affection is a duty — love is only a senti-
ment. You have decided for me my destiny. Is it not
so ?"

William remained for some time silent. Taking her in
his arms and pressing her to his bosom, as if he were re-
lieving a feeling of pain by the pressure, he said, in a voice
which indicated strong emotion —

" I confess it — I confess it, Margaret." Were I put on
my choice, I would turn frae her whase thoughts are my
thoughts, whase life is my life — my love — my true, my
faithfu Margaret — and leave her, wi' a sorrow-smitten heart
and a watery ee, to lift up frae the earth, whar she had
stooped to reclaim my duty, that time-worn parent wha
was the first to learn me that there was a God abune a',
whase strongest command is to honour your father and
your mother, that your days may be lang upon the earth.
Ye hae wrung this frae me, Margaret, yet it is due to ye ;
and, oh, may He wha has issued that command, see meet sae
to dispose the circumstances of our lives as to enable us
to fulfil it without sacrificing the object o' our love !"

" I thank you, I' thank you, William !" cried Margaret,
still hanging on his bosom. " You have decided my fate.
You have renounced me, by saying I am bound to renounce
you. You only dream a fond vision, when you hope for a
change favourable to our wishes. By night and by day
my mother wearies me by querulous regrets and sharp com-
mands, and I am answerable for a heavy load of pain and
misery, which my disobedience has placed upon her heart.
She says I shall not be yours ; my heart says I cannot ;
you say I ought not ; and heaven confirms them all. Fare-
well !"

" Stay, Margaret," cried he, as he seized her convulsively.
" Why did you not tell me before that your mother was
against our attachment ? It was a cruel question, because
ye gae me nae time for a communion wi' my ain heart."

" So much the better," cried she. " It is your judgment
that has spoken — and that is the truest monitor. We may
meet, William — we cannot avoid each other ; but, if you
respect me, speak not again to me of love."

They parted with heavy hearts, and cheeks suffused with
tears. The extraordinary and sudden change that had
come over an attachment so cherished and hallowed, struck
the young man with grief and astonishment. He had him-
self been partly the cause of the sudden resolution taken by
the young woman ; and, while he partially blamed himself
for the rashness he had displayed, in deciding on the feelings
and resolutions of another, and that individual the dearest
to him on earth, he felt the swelling heart and the glowing
cheek of the sacrificer to virtue and duty, and, pleased with
himself, admired by the same motive and ratio the noble
and generous -minded creature, who had copied to the letter
his code of duty, and sacrificed an affection for a lover, to
the duty to a parent. He loved her a thousand times more
for this extraordinary resolution, and prayed silently, as he
walked in the light of the moon, whose image was reflected
on the Clyde which rolled by his side, for the interposition,
in behalf of such unexampled virtue, of that divine Power
which could illumine the dark waters, and make them reflect
the images of the pure tenants of the sky.

For a considerable length of time after this meeting, the
youthful couple had no meetings and few interviews.
William applied himself assiduously to his business. His
abilities, steadiness, and honesty were highly appreciated
by his employer, who raised him to the important charge
of foreman in the manufactory, in the place of the former
official, who, about this time, died. This change in his cir-

cumstances was nearly as sudden and unexpected as that
which had passed over the condition of his affections ; and,
while it pleased him for the sake of his mother, whom he
could now render happy and comfortable, it pained him for
the sake of her whom he would have rejoiced to have made
a participator, along with his parent, in the fruits of his
worldly prosperity. He had now nearly £100 a-year — a
large income for one of his age ; and rendered larger by the
prudence which dictated the careful appropriation of it for
present good and future benefit. While thus fortune
smiled on the family of the Gernmels, she gloomed sternly
on their unfortunate neighbour, whose law-suit still hung
on the tender mercies of the priests of the green altai
which Poverty rears to Justice — the agents of the poor — and
whose abilities to work diminished daily by the influence of
age. She heard of the prosperity of William with a sigh of
envy which her high notions of family honour changed into
an expression of contempt. As yet, however, the die was
not cast, and Kilquhandy depended on the throw. Margaret
trembled, sighed, and was silent.

Some time after this period, the postman called at the
house of Mrs Douglas, and delivered a letter, bearing the
Edinburgh post-mark. It had been long looked for, and

contained the dreadful intelligence that Lord R had

decided the question of the right of proprietorship of Kilqu-
handy in favour of John Douglas of M etherbrae, who was
found to be the nearest male heir. Thus, by one blow, was
driven from under her hopes the prop that had supported
them, as well as upheld her contempt of the votaries of
industry, for a period of not less than ten long years of
poverty and distress. The immediate effect of this announce-
ment upon the peculiarly-framed mind of this tender victim
of family pride, was a swoon, from which she was recovered
by the kind exertions of Marion Gemmel, in aid of the less
efficacious assistance of the weeping daughter. In a state
of hopelessness and misery she was put to bed, and was soon
attacked by a slow fever, resulting from the excitement on
her nervous system produced by the sudden change from a
sustaining hope to a dark despair. At the time she was
seized, she was struggling for the small earnings which were
to serve, as they say, " day and way" — in equally expressive
words, she was "from hand to mouth" — the proceeds of a day's
labour being required for the same day's sustenance ; so
that, without a provision for illness, she was thrown entirely
upon the assistance of friends, who now, that her case was
lost, and she was classed irrevocably among the unfortunate,
shewed no great wish to assist one who was in the habit of
despising the votaries of industry, even when she needed
the assistance which that industry enabled them to yield.

In this state of distress and want, William Gemmel was
the foremost to yield her help and consolation. A portion
of his earnings was freely applied to relieve the wants of the
two children of misfortune, while his daily presence and
soothing conversation were added, with a view to alleviate
those griefs which the means of living alone have not the
power of lifting from the burdened heart. The feeling which
dictated this generosity, kindness, and attention was far
removed from the selfishness which might have discovered
in the distresses of the mother the means of producing a
change in her sentiments towards the proposed lover of her
daughter. Tt was the mere effusion of a kind and generous
heart, which would have rejected the slightest whisper of
a selfish motive, as unworthy of its cherished principles of
openness, singleness, and honesty. Eating from her daugh-
ter's hand, who sat in front of her bed, those necessaries and
comforts chiefly provided by her good friend, who sat also
there, and fed his eyes with the bashful yet grateful looks of
her who yet occupied his heart, the mother, obeying for a
moment the imperative power of gratitude, looked first at
the one and then at the other, while reluctant tears chased
each other down her cheeks. A mixed feeling of gratitude,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

293

which contemplated the young man's kindness ; selfishness,
which discovered that he could maintain a wife, and that
wife's mother ; and pride, which, with eyes askance, still saw
the fading fields of the property she had lost — occupied
her mind.

" Margaret," she said, while the tears continued to flow,
" jour honour is not affected hy this unjust decision, and
the hlood of two great families still flows in your veins. No
court of law can take from you these rights ; but, alas ! I am
beginning to find, when it is almost too late, that there is
something more required for life and happiness than armo-
rial bearings and genealogical trees. This bite of bread is
imperatively demanded by nature — and who supplies it?
One who has earned it by the sweat of his brow. Alas !
it is so. No Graham, no Douglas, has, for the sake of our
family, wet these parched lips with a drop of wine from
their cellars, or filled my mouth with a crust of bread from
their groaning larder. The task of supporting a scion of
their stock has devolved on one who, perhaps, knows not the
name, surname, and occupation (I mean trade) of his grand-
father. Poverty and disappointment have worn out my
nobility, and I could almost take revenge on my creed of
honour by — by" — (looking sorrowfully, and at last bursting
into tears) — " by gratifying the natural feelings of gratitude,
and giving my Margaret to the antagonist ranks of the votaries
of industry. Kiss her, William Gemmel, and claim therein
the reward of your kindness."

William heard these words as notes of inspiration. He
looked confused and amazed ; but the blushing and averted
face of the gentle Margaret called up his gallantry and
passion in aid of the request of the mother. He claimed
the granted privilege ; and deeper blushes succeeded, as if to
provoke a repetition of the pleasure. At this moment the
postman entered the house and delivered another letter
from Edinburgh, the postage of which was paid by their
benefactor. The invalid seized it with clutching and trem-
bling fingers. She could scarcely unfold it for agitation.
Her eye scanned its contents greedily and nervously.

" It is not all lost," she cried, in a voice choked with
surprise and pleasure. " Another cast for honour, justice,
and Kilquhandy ! The star of the glory of the Douglas shall
yet be on- the ascendant, and irradiate the gloom of poverty
and the dark frown of misfortune."

As she uttered these words, she folded up the letter
hastily, placed it in her bosom, and fell back, as if exhausted
by the delirium of pleasure, upon her pillow. She spoke
only a few words to William, who sat in astonishment at
the bedside. Her thoughts had taken a new direction,
and dreams of future greatness again occupied her mind.
Her benefactor was not now needed, at least for consolation.
He cast an inquiring look at Margaret, as if he feared the
effect of this new intelligence upon their opening fortunes.
She understood the look, and responded to it fearfully hut
expressively. Rising, he bade the mother adieu without
being answered, and, shaking hands with Margaret, retired.

At his next visit, he found that matters had undergone
a change. The old hope had been revived. The case was
laid before the whole fifteen for their decision; the ques-
tion was, therefore, again suspended in the scales of justice,
(that is, doubt,) and the visions of the litigant again rose
upon the rapt eye of the day-dreamer. Mrs Douglas was
cured by the intelligence she had received ; and, just in
proportion as her hopes of family grandeur arose, the feel-
ings of gratitude to her benefactor diminished, and, with
them, all thoughts of ever making William Gemmel her
son-in-law. The indications she had exhibited, while
stretched on her bed of sickness, of a favourable disposition
towards the two young people, were not voluntary — they
were wrung from her by misfortune, and a short-lived spite
against her elevated friends, who left her to the mercies of
the poor she despised ; but now, when she had partly re-

covered her former condition, and saw again the broad acres
of Kilquhandy before her admiring eyes, she relapsed into
the same state of mind and feelings she formerly possessed.
All this was apparent to the young man, who, struck with
the curious living example of selfish mutability and ingrati-
tude, (perhaps the first he had seen,) read the first lesson
of the experience of a bad world ; but the page presented
to him was perused with all the scepticism of the fondness
of youth clinging to dreams of ideal goodness and beatitude •
and he required the voice of Margaret to give him absolute
satisfaction. He took the first opportunity of the mother leav-
ing them for a few minutes, to get the information he feared.
'•' Your mother is changed, Margaret," said he, fearful 01
his own words. " Her kindness to me is gane ; and mine to
her is forgotten. What is the meaning o' this ? Is the
kiss o' reconciliation she gave me as a free boon, and the
pledge o' a love which she approved, to be treated as the
street-salutation o' affected friendship ? Has she changed,
Margaret ? — tell me, has she repented ?"

"She has, alas ! she has!" replied she, putting her hands
on her face. " The day after the letter from Edinburgh
arrived, she forbade my future intercourse with you ; and
said that she permitted or courted your freedom" (blushing,
and holding away her face) " as the payment of the debt of
gratitude she owed you. Oh ! why am I forced to speak
against her who gave me birth, and whose failings my love
and duty would conceal from all other ears ! Yet I cannot
resist — she said you would get no more — ay, and that your
payment was ample and enough. To you alone do I teh
this humiliating circumstance, which pains me as much as
the refusal itself."

" I see it owre weel, Margaret," said the young man.
" There's anither cast o' thae fatal dice o' the lawyers for
Kilquhandy. Let it be cast. Time will bring aboot that-
as it does mair important throws ; and I could hope— will
I confess it ? — ay, why should I deny it ? — I could hope
that the cast will be against ye ! Then I would hae anither
chance for my Margaret, wha never can be mine but as the
victim o' poverty. This is a strange, maybe a selfish wish ;
but your mother has herself learned me the alphabet o' the
selfishness o', I fear, a wicked world ; and I only, after a',
wish what I know to be the wish o' my Margaret, and
what will mair conduce to her happiness than the braid
lands and costly mansion o' Kilquhandy."

" I could, indeed, William, wish to continue poor," said
the girl, " if poverty is the only dowry that will buy you."

" Let us hope, then," said he, " that this law-plea will
gang against ye by the voices o' a' the fifteen !"

" That is not my hope," said Mrs Douglas, as she entered
the house and heard the last words of the young man,
"That is not my wish ;" (rising in anger;) "but it is the wish
of all my low-born acquaintances, whom my hard fate has
forced me to associate with in this town, where wheels, and
pirns, and looms are the only " heirlooms" which descend-
ants fight about in courts of law. Envy — sheer, salt-blooded
envy — is the source and fountain of this wish for my beg-
gary ; but, thanks to heaven ! there is not one of the fifteen
who comes from the Saltmarket ; and there is not one who
does not appreciate the rights of gentle blood."

At this moment, Marion Gemmel, who, as she passed,
heard a high voice in the house where she knew her son
was, entered.

" And you are against me too !" cried the still infuriated
woman, casting a red and angry glance at her honest neigh-
bour.

"If I am against you, Mrs Douglas," replied Marion,
who did not know to what she alluded, 'f why did I tend
you, and feed you, and nurse you, when you lay on that
bed there, without friends, without health, and without the
common necessaries o' life?"

" Oh, yes," cried the other, « these are the kindnesse*

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the vulgar like to exercise towards the fallen great. Lot
the child of family and misfortune once come down to the
earth, and the groveling creatures who looked at him in
the hcavcns'with envy, will flap their wings round him,
and feed him with pity. Your son has declared a wish
that my daughter may not get Kilquhandy. That, too, is
the secret wish of his mother. But we may cheat you all ;
ay, and I may yet look from the shining windows of that
mansion, and see the upturned eye of envy, red with spite,
but with less power in its fire than was ever possessed by
the tear of officious, hateful, vulgar pity."

" You are angry, mother," whispered Margaret, ashamed
of her mother's sentiments, and especially her ingratitude
to her two benefactors, who stood and heard with good-
nature this rhapsody.

" And I have even my doubts of you, girl," said the
mother, turning upon her daughter. " You, too, have tasted
the carrion of the owl's nest, and have got your mountain
tastes corrupted ; but I will cure you on the eyries of
Kilquhandy."

This scene interrupted, for some time, the visits of her
kind neighbours ; but they entertained against her no spite,
and commenced again shewing her their usual kindness.
William and Margaret seldom met ; but their love for each
other remained unimpaired, if it did not rather increase.
He pursued, with unexampled assiduity, his business ; and,
as his employer was getting aged and infirm, he came by
degrees to be intrusted with all the important parts of the
concern, and also the secrets of the counting-house. His
salary was increased, and hopes held out to him by his
kind master, that he might ultimately get a share in the
establishment, as a further and suitable reward for those
services which had contributed so much to the benefit of
its interests. These things were communicated to his
delighted mother, and came naturally to the ears of Mar-
garet and her mother — the former of whom sighed with
stifled expectation and love, and the latter compared the
prosperity of a weaver with the success of the honourable
claimant of a patrimonial estate. Exaggeration itself is
shamed by the changes of fickle fortune. One day when
this fallen gentlewoman was busy in her humble occupation,
and expressing, as she wrought, her sentiments of the
injustice of fate in awarding to her vulgar neighbour
plenty, and to her who deserved and had a right to afflu-
ance, nothing but poverty, a gentleman from Edinburgh
entered suddenly, and, holding out his hand, wished her
joy o' Kilquhandy ! The Court, by one of a majority,

had overturned the decision of Lord R , and declared

Margaret Douglas as the rightful heiress of that pro-
perty, with its messuages, its woods, its plantations, its
mosses, muirs, mines, and minerals, and all the other verbose
appurtenances of old estates. The effect of the joy produced
by this sudden announcement was nearly assimilated to
that of the former sorrow— she sunk upon the chair
almost in a state of insensibility ; but the consciousness to
which she aAvakened was a new and regenerated life ; and
no expressions could do justice to the exuberance of her
unrestrained joy. The news spread far and wide. Old
friends, who had disregarded her, flocked to see her and
wish her happiness. Between and the period when she
should get possession, -which, in consequence of an appeal
to the House of Lords having been entered by John
Douglas of Nctherbrae, could only be procured by an ap-
plication to the Court, she did nothing but sit and receive
visitors, and act, by anticipation, the dowager lady of
Kilquhandy. In all this exhibition Marion Gemmel and
her son- were not seen. They had visited her and aided
her in her distress, and they were not needed in her pro-
sperity. The change was a death-blow to the hopes of
William ; but he applied himself only the more assiduously
to the labours of his business.

What is called " interim execution" having been granted
by the Lords, a day was appointed for the heiress and hei
mother taking possession of the estate. A carriage was in
readiness at the door of the humble dwelling, to carry them
to the mansion, and several high relations now conde-
scended to accompany them in a second coach which stood
immediately behind the other. The neighbours assembled
in a crowd ; they were greeted by the smiles of the grati-
fied lady ; and the coaches went off at full speed, amidst
the cheers of the admiring populace.

The scene was now changed. Mrs Douglas and her
daughter having taken up their residence in the large man-
sion, as proprietors of an extended property, were soon
courted by the neighbouring landowners, nobility, and
gentry ; and suitors in abundance were not awanting to the
fair heiress. The reaction of the pressed spring of family
pride shewed now its power in large parties of gay visitors
who ate up the rents of Kilquhandy, ample as they wore
and gave, in return, the exuberant price of their honourable,
countenance. Marion Gemmel, and her laborious and
dutiful son, formed an unfavourable contrast to these com-
panions and guests, and, doubtless, occupied a small space
in the mind of the dowager, though there is good reason to
suppose that the image of her first, and yet sole acknow-
ledged lover, exercised more power over the imagination of
the heiress herself, than the floating forms of gaudy and
empty elegance who paraded in state the drawing-room
of the mansion of Kilquhandy.

In the meantime, the changes of fortune were still in
progress beyond the scene where she had exhibited so ex-
traordinary an instance of her versatility. William Gern-
mel's master died and left him sole heir of his wealth and
business. He had had no near heirs, and preferred worth
and affection to the claims of remote kindred. His money
amounted to upwards of £ 11 0,000, and his business was
itself a mine of wealth. Upon this occasion, the only de-
monstration of a consciousness of the possession of riches
made by the fortunate youth, was the renunciation of the
little cottage in the Gorbals, and the removal of his mother
to the large house which had been occupied by the deceased
proprietor. Their good fortune did not find its way to the
ears of the inhabitants of Kilquhandy ; but the situation of
her humble neighbours had not altogether passed from the
mind of the proud dowager. Secretly resolved upon morti-
fying the pride of Marion Gemmel and her son, she one
day, while riding round the country, stopped her carriage
at the door of the little dwelling where she had so often sat
and meditated on the grandeur which she had now attained.
Her footman rapped at the door ; a strange face shewed
itself.

"Is Marion Gemmel, or her son, William, within?" asked
the dowager.

" They dinna live here noo," answered the person — an
old woman. " An awfu change has happened to them ;
and they're no what they were when they lived in this com-
fortable hoose."

" What !" cried the lady, led astray by the enigmatical
answer — " have they been ejected from their humble
dwelling? Where do they live? Would you, good woman,
convey a little money to William Gemmel, and say it is
sent to Ihcpoor of Gorbals, by Mrs Douglas of Kilquhandy ;
and" (she muttered to herself) " he and his mother may
claim it under that designation ?"

" Ou, ay," replied the woman. " I'll do that ; though,
maybe, I hae as muckle need o't as they wha are honoured
by the name o' the puir."

" You may claim a part of it yourself, then," said the
lady, as she handed to the woman a handful of shillings,
in which the yellow faces of two guineas appeared, as if
dropped there by the carelessness of proud wealth. " Drive
on, John !" cried the dowager of Kilquhandy ; and avay

TALES OF THE BOIIDERS.

295

dashed the gay equipage in which the gratified lady rolled
from side to side, as she thought of the victory she had
gained over her poor friends, who hud once supported her
in her distress.

The old woman took the alms to William Gemmel,
retaining to herself one of the guineas and the half of the
shillings. She told the favoured beggar, that it was sent to
him by Mrs Douglas of Kilquhandy — she forgot to say
it was for the poor. The good-natured man smiled, and
returned the gift to the poor woman, who blessed the day
she had seen so fine a lady and so generous a friend.

A month had scarcely elapsed, when the Lord Chancellor,
fit that time Lord L , having taken up the case, involv-
ing the right to the property of Kilquhandy, upon the
appeal of John Douglas of Netherbrae, overturned the
decision of the Court, came back to the opinion entertained

ny Lord R , and pronounced the true proprietor to be

the appellant, John Douglas. In a very short time, Mrs
Douglas and her daughter were served with a writ of ejec-
tion, and the whole furniture in the house was poinded for
the bygone rents, which had been so recklessly spent. She
had only time to save a few pieces of silver plate, and re-
moved immediately with her daughter to Edinburgh, where
she took up her residence in Lady Lawson's AVynd, far
enough from the former scene of her poverty and sudden
fortune. These changes were all noticed by William Gem-
mel ; who, now in possession of a large fortune, felt a deli-
cacy, which overcame for a time his love, in preventing
him (though he had once been in Edinburgh) from calling
at the residence of the unfortunate couple, and paining the
mother of Margaret by the blush of merited shame.

Meanwhile, John Douglas of Netherbrae, having a good
property of his own, resolved upon selling Kilquhandy, as
Boon as his title to it could be completed. It was ac-
cordingly advertised in all the newspapers, and the sale
was to take place in the Glasgow Tontine, on a day fixed.

Sometime after this, and while Mrs Douglas and her
daughter were still entirely ignorant of either the good
fortune of their old friend or the fate of the property which
they could not bear the pain of inquiring after, they were
waited upon by Mr William Gemmel, who had travelled
from Glasgow for the express purpose of seeing them. The
mother held away her head as he entered, and Margaret
rose, suffused with blushes, to shake her visitor by the hand.
He knew too well the situation in which they were placed,
to dwell on the past circumstances of their lives ; but it was
necessary that he should knaw the extent of their know-
ledge regarding his fortunes and the fate of the property.

" I hae come to offer you again my humble services,"
said he, " and to request your return to your auld freends in
the west. I may hae it in my power to benefit you, if your
situation demands and your feelings will permit my officious
Interference."

" We are obliged to you, Mr Gemmel," said the mother ;
" we have again been unfortunate. How has Fortune
treated you andMarion ? You have left your old dwelling —
I hope the change has not been for the worse, and that your

situation under Mr has been improved, by further

marks of the generosity of that good man."

" My situation is indeed improved," replied William ;
"and I could wish to shew you and Margaret that I hae
the power as weel as the will to do guid to my auld friends.
We will say naething o' what has come and gane ; and, if
you will trust yoursel to my guidance, and winna be
offended by my offers o' assistance, I will certify you
against a' reproach, and a' reference to the things that Time
has a right to lock past, in the recesses whar he places the
things o' ithcr years, and a' the ten days' wonders o' the uni-
verse. Will ye accompany me to Glasgow ? Here is a
coach at the door ready k» receive us. Say the word, and
say it frankly."

"Could you procure for me a way of living." said the
mother, "less laborious than that to which my necessity
formerly forced me to apply myself?"

" I think I can," replied William ; " maybe something
better suited to your station and bodily abilities, may be got.
Y ou hae little here to care for"— (looking round on the empty
room)— "just lock the door and let us gang on the instant."

Mrs Douglas, humbled by her misfortunes, agreed to
accompany him at the end of the space of an hour. The
period passed, and the three friends were seated in the
lured coach which stood waiting them at the door. The
driver had got his instructions, and drove forward with
great speed ; while, under the pretence of preventing the
gratification of the curiosity of gazers, the blinds were put
up, and all were, apparently, resigned to the conviction that
their route was towards Glasgow. After a long drive, during
which the ladies had been supplied with refreshments, from
a small repository of comforts provided by the kindness of
their guide, the coach stopped suddenly, the blinds Avere
taken down, the door opened, and the travellers were
landed at the foot of the broad steps of the superb entrance
to the mansion of Kilquhandy. A servant, who had been in
the house during the residence of the late temporary pro-
prietors, and who smiled to see again his old mistress, led the
way to the drawing-room, followed by the ladies, who
stared at each other, at their companion, at the servant,
around them, above them, everywhere, in mute amaze-
ment. Not a word was said by Mr Gemmel or the
servant; all seemed to be dumb show, as they walked
forwards, under the influence, as it appeared, of a secret
spell of enchantment. Arrived at the drawing-room, chairs
were set for them by the servant, who looked as grave and
demure as if he had been entirely ignorant that Kilquhandy
had been sold, or of any of the circumstances Avhich had
occurred since he last saw the face of his old mistress.
Mrs Douglas looked at him, as if for explanation ; but he
took no notice of her ; and Mr Gemrael's face was as
difficult to read. After this dumb show had been acted,
and the party were seated, Mr Gemmel ordered the servant
to serve up refreshments. The order was quickly obeyed •
and, to the astonishment of the ladies, they saw their
favourite lunch served up in their old familiar dishes and
table apparatus, in the way formerly followed by their
directions, when they resided in the house. While all this
was performing, Mr Gemmel still maintained his silence,
and the servant his demure gravity ; while the ladies,
repressed by some feeling which they themselves could
not perhaps have explained, refrained from asking an
explanation.

When the servant had retired, and Mr Gemmel was
about to speak, Mrs Douglas started to her feet. A
thought had struck her, and her manner indicated anger
and suspicion.

" Is it thus, Mr Gemmel," said she, " that you love to
sport with misfortune, and shew in mock appearances of
reality the extent of our loss, by the measure of our
disappointment, at wakening to the consciousness that this
house, these grounds, and that furniture, which were once
ours, are now the property of Mr John Douglas of Nether-
brae, our bitter foe ? But this is revenge, and a paltry
revenge, of my refusal of Margaret as your wife, and per-
haps of my gift to you in behalf of the poor of Gorbals,
among whom you thought yourself intended to be included.
You have well avenged yourself; and now, sir, how are we
to get back to the humble dwelling of misfortune, from
which you have brought us to view the memorials of oui
misfortune and misery ?"

Saying this, she took her daughter by the arm, and was
in the act of hurrying out of a place which suggested to
her so many recollections of misery and pain, when Ml
Gemmel seized her, and made her again be seated.

296

TALES OF THE BORDERS

" Madam," said he, " it is now a long time sin' we
were first acquainted, and scarcely a less period sin' I loved
yer daughter, Margaret, as ye weel ken. Though a
humble operative, I marked wi* a keen and never-failing
eye, every turn o' your life, and every revolution o' your
fortune. I heard ye a thousand times despise, wi' the
contempt o' the high horn o' this land — far mair removed
frae a natural connection with or sympathy for the puir o'
God's creatures, than the celestial king of China is frae the
humblest rice-grower o' his dominions — the toils and the
rewards o' honest industry, by which our land has waxed
great among the nations o' the earth. Will I say that I
smiled at it — that I pitied ye — and that, for the love I bore
to your daughter, I sorrowed for it ? I did them a' — and
mair than a' ; for I resolved, wi' the courage that springs
frae a reliance on an honest heart and willing hands, to
make ye blush for having cast upon the first o' our cities,
my native Glasgow — the staple commodity o' our morals,
honest industry — the noblest work o' God, an honest man
— that contempt and contumely that still lurks like an
envious fiend in the bosoms o' the great, in spite o' the
efforts they mak to shew a hollow and contemptible sym-
pathy for the creatures they grind and despise. I succeeded ;
your law-plea went on ; your pride — excuse me, madam —
continued ; your contempt for Glasgow and its foul blooded
operatives, diminished not. And what was I doing during
that time ? I was working out, quietly, soberly, and confi-
dently, the condition o' the success o' God's best boon — a
love o' independence earned by one's self, and not inherited
by the rights o' mouldy parchment frae an ancestor wha,
peradventure, got his lands by a Border raid, nae better than
a highway robbery. I say, madam, I succeeded ; for my
master said that I was an honest man, a good son, and a
steady workman, and he rewarded me, as every good
master, I hope and trust, will ever do. I succeeded him.
and became richer than I ever hoped to be. You were
also rich, but knew not o' my good fortune ; for, when ye
got this property o' Kilquhandy, ye forgot puir Widow
Gemmel and her son the weaver, and returned to the
Gorbals to mak a display o' your wealth by sending to me
a sum for the puir o' Gorbals — in other words, to mysel.
And what next ? Your property — like the maist o' that
which depends on auld Latin charters, sae confused that the
proprietors dinna ken by them what their ancestors took in a
foraging expedition against their neighbours, from what
was truly bought — took wings and flew awa ; while men
that had the foundation o' an honest acquisition to rest on,
remained. You became a beggar — I continued rich —
this property was in the market — and my heart was in the
keeping o' your daughter, Margaret. I bought it, and this
house, thae braid acres and braw lawns, this furniture,
and that servant, whase face has this day sae nobly dune
its duty, are a' the property o' William Gemmel, your
humble servant." He paused and looked at the two ladies,
who, still farther removed from the land-marks of daily
experience and ordinary life, knew not how to look or what
to say. " And what is mair," continued he, " they are a'
at the service o' Margaret Douglas, if the family pride o'
her mither will let her become again mistress o' Kilqu-
handy, under the name of Mistress Gemmel." He paused
again, and waited for an answer. " Will you reject me
now," he continued, " as the husband of your daughter,
Mrs Douglas ?"

Mrs Douglas remained for a moment silent. A deep
blush suffused her face, and her heart beat so as almost to
be heard by him who had so powerfully moved it. An
hysterical emotion passed over her frame, and, bursting into
a loud paroxysm of sobs, she flew forward and flung herself
at the feet of her benefactor.

"Excuse me, excuse me, Mr Gemmel!" she cried, while
the blush of shame and the emotions of gratitude and joy

weie still visible. " I treated you unkindly — cruelly. My
thoughts run back, and shew me the torturing contrast
between the conduct of the presumptuous and conceited
gentlewoman and the humble and virtuous operative of:
the Gorbals. I see the triumph of honest industry over
the hollow pride of high-sounding lineage. My gratitude
chokes me. I can only find relief from the position I now
occupy, at the feet of my best benefactor, my truest friend,
yet once my despised and abused neighbour."

She burst again into tears, and would not, for a time, rise
from her humble position. Margaret was sitting looking
on — she was also in tears ; and Mr Gemmel himself, strug-
gling to raise the humble supplicant from the ground, could
not restrain the indication of a full heart.

" Rise, madam," he said — " the pride o' honest industry
is not like that o' lineage. It requires nae humiliation —
nae bending o' the knee — nae upturning o' the eye o' sup-
plication. It glories rather in the straight back, the weel-
supported head, and the firm eye o' a reliance on a sound
heart. Rise, rise !"

" It is good," said she, rising, " that I have something to
give to him who despises that which the great thirst after,
as the false god Chium groaned for sacrifices — humiliation.
Take her, my dear, kind benefactor; and, oh, may she prove
to you a suitable return for the unexampled goodness you
have this day heaped on those who so little deserved
it!"

Margaret was in an instant in the arms of her lover, who.
overcome by the pleasure of pressing to his bosom the
creature he had so long thought of, dreamed of, sighed for,
and despaired of, raised his hand to his eyes to conceal the
effect produced upon him by the consummation of his hap-
piness.

The door now opened, and Marion Gemmel entered.
She wore still the same old-fashioned clothes she was in
the habit of wearing when the mother of the humble
operative. The meeting was strange and altogether beyond
description ; Mrs Douglas was again under the influence
cf an overwhelming shame. All her former conduct lay
open before her, and she could have fallen into the earth-
so much more does one female feel from the infliction of a
look of just retribution thrown on her by another, than
from the same punishment awarded by a man. But Marion
was kind-hearted, and relieved her by asking, in her old,
homely way —

" Hoo hae ye been this mony a day, Mrs Douglas,
and my auld favourite, Peggy ? How happy I am to see
ye, now that we a' hae got quit o' the pirns o' the Gor-
bals !"

" We must not despise the pirns, mother," said Mr
Gemmel ; " for we are more indebted to their birr in
bringing us here than to that o' the carriage wheels."

Saying this, he seized the opportunity to laugh. The
simple charm cured all. Shame fled, and joy returned. In
half-an-hour all were as free as they ever were. The party
set out to examine the fine propeity of Kilquhandy ; and,
as Mrs Douglas described all the beauties of the lost and
regained paradise, she wept for very joy. When they re-
turned, the women set about the preparations for the mar-
riage— a task that delighted them greatly. The couple were
proclaimed next Sunday, and married the day after ; and
the Gemmels of Kilquhandy were as respected a family as
any of the old stocks that had flourished since the days of
the black Douglas.

WILSON'S

, arra&ftfonatB, antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

" IT'S in vain to struggle langer wi' the stream, Elleanor —
I canna do it. My strength is worn out, and my spirit
exhausted, in the weary strife. The current o' adversity is
owre strong for me, Elleanor ; sae I maun just yield to it,
and allow it to overwhelm me."

" Oh, dinna say that, James — dinna say that/' replied the
young and beautiful wife of the unfortunate man who gave
utterance to this desponding language. " Dinna say that,
my James," she said, throwing her arms around his neck,
and gazing in his face with a look at once of sorrow and
affection. " There's better days in store for us ; and haena
we, in the meantime, the love o' each other's hearts to com-
pensate for the want o' warld's gear?"

James Williamson did not repel the endearments of his
wife, nor reject the consolation which she would offer ; for,
moody and stern as his misfortunes had rendered him, to
her he was still the same kind and gentle being he had
ever been ; Elleanor he still loved, as he had ever done,
with the most devoted affection ; and it was, in truth, the
reflection that he had involved her in his miseries and suf-
ferings that gave to his feelings at this moment the bitter-
ness and poignancy which rendered them so intolerable.

James Williamson and Elleanor Dennistoun had been
married but a few months ; yet, in that short time, irretriev-
able ruin had overtaken them in so far as regarded their
worldly circumstances. An unfortunate speculation in
grain, into which Williamson, who was a small farmer in
Berwickshire, had rashly entered, involved him in diffi-
culties, from which he felt it to be all but impossible he
should ever be able to extricate himself. Bankruptcy, with
all its appalling consequences, ejection from his farm, and
a total bereavement of all he had in the world, stared him
in the face, and drove him to despair.

On the occasion to which the opening of our story refers,
Williamson had just received a letter from an importunate
creditor, threatening that a caption, which he had against
him for £150, would certainly be put in force within three
days, if the amount, with interest and expenses, were not
then paid ; and thus was added to his other miseries the
dread of a jail — to poor Williamson one of the most dis-
graceful and appalling visitations which it was in the power
of misfortune to inflict.

It was, then, on returning home after receiving this letter,
that Williamson, who had hoped, notwithstanding the
desperate state of his affairs, that, if time were given him,
he might possibly have weathered the storm, gave utterance
to the language of despair in which we have represented
him indulging. He had, a few days before, solicited time
from the creditor who was now threatening him with ex-
treme measures, and the refusal of this indulgence had
deprived him of all heart and all hope.

Williamson, as we have said, did not reject the conso-
lation which his gentle and affectionate wife offered him in
his affliction. He returned her caresses with the same
tenderness with which they were bestowed, and acknow-
ledged her words of comfort with a look of kind regard ;
but it was accompanied by a faint smile of incredulity, which
142. VOL. III.

their vagueness, when opposed to the stern and positive

i evils towards which they were directed, could not but excite.

^ " We have, indeed, the love o' each other's hearts, my

Elleanor, to console us," replied Williamson, "and I value

yours as the greatest treasure on earth ; but what will it

avail us in our contest with the world ? It canna shield us

frae the storm o' adversity, nor avert the evils that are

threatenin us."

' No, James," said Elleanor — " it can do neither ; but it
can help us to endure them ; and I hope things are no sae
bad but that they may yet mend wi' us."

Her husband shook his head ; but it was some time be-
fore he made any reply. At length —

"Elleanor," he said, "I hae hitherto concealed frae ye
the extent and urgency o' the evils which threaten us — and
I hae dune this oot o' tenderness to you; but I think it
now necessary that you should know all, and know the
worst, that, in case any part of my future conduct may stand
in need o' an apology, ye may hae ane to refer to."

ic What do ye mean, James ? Avhat do ye mean, my
ain dear James?" exclaimed Elleanor, alarmed at the am-
biguity of her husband's language, which seemed to point
at some desperate proceeding. " What do ye mean ?" she
said, again embracing him, and now bursting into an agony of
tears. " Surely misfortune's no gaun to gar ye forget yersel,
or to drive ye to do onything that's unworthy o' ye ?"

" Oh, no, no, my Elleanor, have no fear of that," replied
the husband, smiling, but embracing her tenderly ; then,
waving any further discussion on the subject, he proceeded
to inform her precisely of the situation in which he stood, and
concluded by throwing down the letter which threatened him
with instant and summary proceedings, saying, as he did so — •

" And ye see, Elleanor, they'll not only leave us house-
less and landless ; but they'll hae me dragged to a prison like
a thief or a murderer. That I canna stand. A' but that
I think I might bear. But that I canna, I tvlnna encounter."

Elleanor took up and read the letter which her husband
threw down ; and when she had done so —

" Aweel, James, even in a jail we can be happy in each
other. They'll alloo me to gae wi' ye, I fancy. But
dinna ye think yer uncle would lend ye as much as pay
this debt, as it seems the maist pressin ?"

" I doot it, I doot it very much," replied Williamson •
" for there's little o' the milk o' human kindness in him.
But I may try him. It's our last and only chance. If that
fails" Here the speaker stopped short, and left the sen-
tence unfinished.

The application to Williamson's uncle alluded to, was
made on the following day ; but it was made in vain. He
would give no assistance. On returning home from his
fruitless mission to his relatives, Williamson threw down
his bonnet, and, addressing his wife —

" Well, Elleanor," he said, " the die is cast. The last
throw is thrown, and it has turned up a blank. It is just
as I expected : my uncle winna advance me a penny, and
to-morrow I maun gang to jail — that is," he said, after a
pause, " if I war fule aneuch to wait till they took me. I'll
gie up a' to the last penny, but no' my liberty. That they
shanna tak frae me, if I can help it."

Williamson now proceeded to explain to his wife that it

298

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

was his intention to go out of the way for some time; and
in the propriety of this measure he succeeded in obtaining
her acquiescence. The arrangements consequent on this
contemplated proceeding were — that Elleanor should go to
reside with an aunt of hers, with whom she was a great
favourite, and with whom, her father and mother being both
dead, she had lived previous to and at the time of her mar-
riage ; and that a certain confidential friend of Williamson's
should look after his interests in the proceedings of his
creditors, and, in the meantime, take charge of his effects.
All this being adjusted, Williamson, early on the third
morning after the day on which our story opens, arose. It
was the last he was to see from the windows of his pleasant
little dwelling at Woodlee ; for his landlord was his largest
creditor, arid would, as a matter of course, eject him, and
seize upon his stock and farming implements. This land-
lord, Williamson had never seen, lie was too great a man
to admit of his holding any direct personal correspondence
with his tenants, especially with one so humble as James
Williamson. He was a lord — Lord Allenton.

It was with his factor, then, that Williamson had had
always to deal ; and, from his previous experience of this
gentleman's official practice, he felt that he had but little
lenity to expect in that quarter. Good reason, then, had
the unfortunate man to mutter to himself, as he did, on look-
ing abroad on the beautiful and peaceful scene which his
window overlooked, on the morning to which we allude, that
it was the last time he should behold it from the same
situation. Having affectionately embraced his wife, and re-
peated for the thousandth time a promise to write to her
often, and to return to her the moment his affairs permitted,
Williamson bade her farewell, and set out to proceed to Glas-
gow, where it had been previously arranged he should reside
until such an adjustment of his matters had taken place
as should secure his personal safety. This, however, was an
affair not so easily accomplished — or rather it was one which
could not be accomplished. The factor of Lord Allenton,
who found himself considerably short of the arrears due by
Williamson, stood out, and would give no quarter. All the
other creditors were satisfied ; but he remained obstinate,
and would listen to no proposals of compromise. Inthe mean-
time, Williamson, faithful to his promise to his wife, had
written to her frequently, and always in the most affectionate
terms ; but his letters gradually became more desponding, as
time passed away without bringing a final adjustment of his
affairs, and kept him in hopeless and listless indolence, at
a distance from all he held dear. From the language of
despondency, poor Williamson at length employed that of
despair, and exhibited, in the following letter, a consum-
mation resulting from that feeling, for which his unfortunate
wife was but little prepared.

" My dearest, dearest Elleanor, — The intelligence which
this letter will convey to you, will distract you. I feel, I
know it will ; but I trust the hopeless state of my affairs
will plead my apology. I have enlisted, Elleanor. I have
taken up the musket. I saw nothing else for it. I could
not return to you ; or, if I did, and escaped a prison, which
is not likely, I could not have supported you in the ease and
comfort which you now enjoy, with your kind aunt, and
from which I should reckon it a cruelty to withdraw you — a
consequence that would result from my return. Believe
me, my dearest Elleanor, that whatever changes may take
place in my circumstances or condition, none shall ever occur
in the feelings I entertain towards you. These will remain
unaltered through all the vicissitudes of life, let these vicis-
situdes be what they may."

Much in a similar strain with thisfollowed, including many
regretful references to their once happy abode at Woodlee,
which the writer expressed a fear he might never again
behold. Williamson then proceeded to detail to his wife
various particulars relative to his new duties informed her

of the number of his regiment, and concluded by assuring
her that he would regularly inform her of everything that
occurred to him, of the smallest interest.

It would serve little purpose to describe the feelings of
Elleanor on reading this, to her, most heart-rending letter.
Her first idea was to fly to her husband, and to share with
him all the dangers and privations to which his new life
might expose him ; but from this resolution she was, although
not without great difficulty, dissuaded by her aunt. Nor
would the efforts of that relative in this way have been suc-
cessful, had they not been seconded by the earnest entreaties
of her husband himself that she would at no time think of
taking such a step. He had feared that she would insist on
joining him ; and, shocked at the idea of her being exposed
to the hardships and humiliations of a soldier's wife, had
cautioned her against entertaining for an instant the thought
of becoming one otherwise than in name.

At this point of our story, an interval of three years
occurs, during which no change had taken place in the
fortunes of either Williamson or his wife. The former still
continued in the army, and the latter still remained with
her aunt. Although no change, however, had taken place
in Williamson's fortunes in this time, many had taken place
in the localities of his residence. He had been moved with
his corps from one destination to another ; and was, when
we resume our tale, at the seat of war in the Netherlands.

Williamson had, by this time, seen some service. He
had been in two or three engagements ; and, although he
had distinguished himself by his bravery, had hitherto
escaped uninjured. But it was not in the field alone that
he had made himself remarkable ; he enjoyed an equal
reputation for steadiness and orderly conduct in quarters.
In the meantime, the hostile spirit of the nations of Europe
was coming to a crisis ; a mighty consummation was at
hand. On the plains of Waterloo, the power, and great
ness, and glory of Napoleon, were about to be overthrown
and trodden in the dust.

It is well known that, for some time previous to that
tremendous battle, a general feeling prevailed over all
Europe, that a great and decisive struggle was approaching:
that a day of deadly strife, such as the world had never
seen, was about to dawn on the mighty hosts of armed men,
who were hurriedly converging, from various and distant
lands, towards that point which destiny had marked for the
last and closing scene of Europe's long continued and san-
guinary warfare.

One of the atoms, in this huge mass of humanity, on
hostile purpose intent, was James Williamson, He was
quartered with his regiment in Brussels, and with that regi-
ment marched out to battle on the memorable morning of
the fight of Quatre Bras. Two days afterwards, he was in
the " ranks of death," mustered on the field of Waterloo.
Leaving him here, to share in the fatigues and dangers of that
sanguinary day, we shall attach ourselves to a personage
whom we hope to render no less worthy of our sympathy
and interest.

On the morning of the day ou which the battle of Water-
loo was fought, a young woman, a stranger, who had just
arrived in Brussels, was seen hurrying distractedly through
the streets, inquiring of every one she met, if they could
tell her where she would find the — th regiment. None
could inform her, because none knew the language in which
she addressed them. It was English. At length, however
she ascertained that the regiment she sought had left Brus-
sels two days before, and that it was at that moment on the
field of Waterloo, where the mighty contest had already
begun, as was ominously intimated by the distant roar of
cannon, to which her informant called her attention at the
moment he spoke. The young woman listened for an in-
stant to the appalling sound of the artillery, whose thunders
rolled onwards, in an unintermitting succession of dull and

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

heavy peals— and she grew pale as she listened ; but it wt
not the paleness of a timid or a shrinking spirit. It was th
effect of a deep, an agitating sympathy for those \vho wer
exposed to the perils of the day, associated with distract
ing fears for the safety of one, in particular, who was
sharer in those dangers.

Having, as we have said, listened for a moment to th
roar of the cannon, the young woman hurriedly inquired fo
the road that led to the field of hattle. It was pointed ou
to her. She immediately availed herself of the informatior
and hastened on towards Waterloo. But she had not gon
far, ere she encountered sights that might well have aj
palled a stouter heart than hers. These were waggons fille
with wounded soldiers, being conveyed from the field c
battle to Brussels. On some of these Death had already se
his seal ; the fatal impress of which might be marked o
their livid and ghastly countenances, or traced in the tota
prostration of their vital energies. Others, again, whos
wounds were not mortal, yet dreadfully severe, exhibite
that langxiid, sickly, fainting look, which betokens the ex
tremity of bodily suffering. All, all was appalling to beholc
and it did appal the lonely and unprotected young womai
on whose sight it now fell, and who was hurrying on t
the fearful source from whence all this misery proceeded; bu
it did not for a moment shake the resolution which urged he
on the course she was pursuing, nor make her swerve fron
the purpose which prompted her daring adventure.

As she neared the field of strife, she heard —

" The cannon's roar,
Nearer, clearer, deadlier than before."

Nor was this alone the only indication of her near approac'
*o the scene of the mighty contest. Dismantled cannon, anc
broken arras of various kinds, intermingled with military
caps, and fragments of military accoutrements, met her a
every step, and told of partial combats between the remote
parties of the hostile armies. Here and there, too, a dea<
body intimated in language still more unequivocal th<
horrid work that was going forward. Undismayed b;j
these appalling sounds, our heroine held on her way
till at length the great scene of strife itself — the field o
Waterloo, covered with its tens of thousands of fighting men
engaged in mortal combat — burst, in all its wild and fearfu
magnificence, on her view, and till she found herself get-
ting involved in the movements of the troops. On dis-
covering this last circumstance, she left the road, and struck
through some fields on the left, for the purpose of gaining
a solitary knoll at some distance, that seemed at once to be
out of the way of the movements of the hostile armies, and
to promise a complete view of the field of battle. Having
gained this eminence, she sat down, and gazed, with awe-
stricken eye and beating heart, on the tremendous scene before
her. But how vain, how idle, was at least one of the object
?or which she now so intently scanned the field of battle ! It
was to see if she could, by any sign or circumstance, discover
the position of the — th regiment. She had earnestly and
eagerly asked every party, nay, every individual she had met
as she came along, if they could tell her where the — th
regiment was. None could inform her, and most laughed
at the absurdity of the inquiry. Idle, therefore, and vain
in the last degree, it will be seen, was now her attempt
to distinguish, amongst so many thousands, and these, too,
constantly changing their positions, that particular corps in
which she seemed so interested, and which, moreover, she
had no oxitward mark whatever by which to distinguish
it, even were it otherwise possible. While thus situated,
and thus hopelessly employed, the young woman was sud-
denly startled, by hearing the moaning of a person in dis-
tress, at no great distance from where she sat. She instantly
arose, looked around her, and discovered a wounded soldier
lying on the ground, half concealed by some brushwood —
which shelter he had evidently sought before he fell. On

299

hearing these sounds, and seeing the prostrate warrior, all
the woman rose within her, and she hurried to the assist-
ance of the sufferer. He proved to be a British officer.
He was severely wounded, and in the last stage of exhaus-
:ion. On seeing the condition of the apparently dyin*
soldier, our heroine, instinctively impressed with a confidence

L the invigorating and refreshing effects of a little cold water

a such a case as that before her, instantly snatched up the
wounded man's cap, and, hurryingto abrook that was hard by,
hlled it with the simple element. This, on returning to

ie sufferer, she sprinkled gently on his pallid countenance,
and with it bathed his burning forehead. The beneficial
cts of the cooling application were made immediately
apparent. The wounded man opened his eyes, and, after
gazing for a moment, with a look of bewilderment on the
fair countenance that was wistfully and sympathizing
hanging over him, muttered the word " water."

Again his ministering angel, who had been thus so
strangely sent to his relief, hastened to the brook, and
returned with another supply of that element which was
now so highly prized. Raising him gently up, she held
the water to his parched lips. The wounded man drank
greedily, and Was instantly restored to consciousness, and
to a state of comparative vigour. He now sat up, and was
able to express the gratitude he felt to the fair stranger,
whom heaven seemed to have sent thus opportunely to his
aid. But that fair stranger's benevolent ministrations did
not terminate with those acts of kindness already mentioned.
She did more. She took a shawl from her shoulders, tore
it into strips, and with these bound up the soldier's bleeding
wounds. After all this had been done, and the latter had
so far recovered as to be able to express all he felt —

_ <c Who, in heaven's name," he said, addressing his fair
friend, " who, in heaven's name, are you ? Where are you
from ? and what on earth brought you here ?"

The young woman blushed, and smilingly replied — " I
am from Scotland, sir."

c' From Scotland !" exclaimed the wounded officer. "• My
own dear native land ! From Scotland are you, my guardian
angel ? Then, indeed, is this extraordinary circumstance
complete. The gentle hand that has administered to my
relief in my sad necessities — that has, under God, restored
me to life, and saved me from perishing on the field — is that
of a countrywoman."

Having said this, he again asked her what had brought
ler into such a dangerous neighbourhood. The young
woman replied, that her husband was in the — th regiment,
ind that she had come there to watch for him, that, in case
le should be wounded, she might be at hand to aid him,
and to attend on him.

The wounded officer appreciated all the heroism, the
ender and ardent affection, which this declaration indicated;
>ut he could not refrain from smiling at the simplicity ol
character which it also discovered. A young woman ven-
uring alone towards a battle-field, to be in readiness to
idminister relief to a wounded husband, whom she had
not the slightest chance of meeting with — where, of many
housands, he was but one, and these spread over a field of
many miles in extent— seemed to him, as it really was, the
fery extreme of uncalculating love. Of all this, however,
lie wounded officer took no notice. He rightly conceived
liat any remark on it would be ungracious, and he there-
ore made none ; but he resolved, if he could by any means
revent it, that lie would not permit her to expose herself
ny further in so hopeless a pursuit ; and a circumstance at
lis instant occurred, which, singularly enough, brought
lat about which he, in his present circumstances, could
nly desire. Descrying a British waggon with wounded
assing on the road (which was at the distance of about
quarter of a mile) towards Brussels, he requested his
uardian angel, as he called our heroine, to do him one

800

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

other act of kindness, by going down to the road, and
informing the escort by which the waggon was accom-
panied, of his condition, and desiring that a party should
be sent to remove him. The escort of the waggon was
composed of a party of the — th — of that regiment which
the fair messenger had so anxiously and vainly inquired
for. She approached it. She waved to the party to stop.
They obeyed the signal ; but looked with amazement at
the person who made it. To see a young female in such a
situation, and alone, was, to the soldiers, matter of inex-
pressible surprise. The young woman leaped a small ditch
that separated the road from the field. She had scarcely
done so, when one of the soldiers who formed the escort
suddenly threw down his musket, and, rushing wildly
towards her, enfolded her in his arms ; exclaiming, in a
transport of mingled joy and surprise —

" Heavens ! Elleanor, Elleanor ! my own dear Elleanor !"

" James !" exclaimed Elleanor, (the secret is now out,
good 'reader — it was indeed Elleanor, and no other,) in a
voice faint with emotion ; and, without adding another word,
she flung herself, in an ecstasy of speechless happiness, on
her husband's neck.

"What on earth brought you here, Elleanor? and,
above all, what on earth brought you here at such a time
as this ?" said her husband, after the first transports of
their meeting had subsided, and looking her affectionately
in the face while he spoke.

Elleanor blushed and looked down. There wTere too
many witnesses present, too many eyes upon her, to allow
her to explain herself; but she said shortly, and in a tone
so low as not to be heard by any one but him for whom
the information was intended — " It was to take care of
you, James, in case anything should have happened you."
James acknowledged the devoted affection of his wife by a
smile and gentle pressure of her hand.

Williamson would now have pressed his wife for a history
of her journey, and proceedings connected with it, but wras
at the moment prevented, by her stating the mission on
which she came from the wounded officer, and her urging
that immediate assistance should be sent him. The request
was instantly complied with. A party, of which her
husband was one, proceeded, accompanied by Elleanor, to
where he officer lay. None of the soldiers knew him
personally ; but Williamson thought he had seen the coun-
tenance somewhere before, but when, where, or in what
circumstances, he could not at all recollect. On this
subject, however, he made no remark. The wounded
officer, on being told by Elleanor that she had found her
husband, expressed the utmost satisfaction with the very
singular circumstance ; and, on the latter's being pointed out
4,0 him, took him kindly by the hand, and informed him,
and all the others present, how much he was indebted to
his wife for her most opportune and friendly aid.

" I shall always consider," he said, " the aid which she
afforded me as having been the means of saving my life ;
and it shall be my first care, on arriving at Brussels, to see
that the important service is as fully acknowledged as it is
already appreciated."

Nothing more of any interest at this moment passed.
The wounded officer, who was a young and handsome man,
with the air and manner of a person of high birth and
breeding, was removed to the waggon ; in which proceeding
Williamson was especially anxious and careful to subject
him to as little suffering as possible ; and, soon after, the
whole party resumed their march, and in a few hours after-
wards reached Brussels in safety. On their arrival there,
the young officer, who had yet only announced himself as a
captain in the — d regiment of infantry, without adding his
name, was conveyed, by his own desire, to a hotel, where, on
parting with Williamson, he desired him to call on him on
the following forenoon ; having ascertained previously that

the party to which the former belonged had duties assigned
them which would prevent their returning to the field ; and
that, therefore, this would be fully in Williamson's power.
He also requested that the wife of the latter should accom-
pany him on the occasion of his visit. With these requests
Williamson promised compliance in his own name, and in
that of his wife, who had not, of course, accompanied the
party that conveyed the wounded man into the bedroom
which he was to occupy, but waited her husband's return on
the street.

In the meantime, intelligence of the victory of Waterloo
harl reached the city, and a scene of wild excitation and con-
fusion followed that it is more easy to conceive than describe.
Every street and alley, every tavern, every house of entertain-
ment, of lesser as well as larger note, filled, during the
night, with stragglers from the army, and private houses
with the wounded. &'o great, indeed, was the confusion
and turmoil on the following day — these having rather
increased than diminished — that both Williamson and
Elleanor began to think of abandoning all idea of fulfilling
their promise to wait on the wounded officer of the — d ;
and to this they were induced by recollecting that he had
omitted to give them his name, and they to ask it, and by
learning that the house in which he had taktn up his
quarters was filled with persons of a similar rank, and in a
similar condition. Indeed, Elleanor had all along been
against troubling him further ; saying, that, in doing what
she did for him, she had merely discharged a duty, and that
she neither expected nor desired any reward but what her
own feelings afforded her. Her husband, however, ultimately
came to the resolution of making the promised visit, which,
on reflection, it appeared to him it would be ungracious to
withhold, and finally prevailed on his wife to accompany
him. On arriving at the hotel, they found, as they
expected, from the want of the name of the officer whom
they sought, great difficulty in finding him, owing to the
great number of other officers who were in the house, and
more especially from the rather odd circumstance of there
being no less than other three wounded captains of the same
regiment in the hotel at the very moment. By dint of
frequent inquiry, however, and the exercise of some perse-
verance in the pursuit they at last found the person
they wanted. He was stretched upon a couch or sofa, and
was in such spirits as shewed thathis wounds, though they
might be, and certainly were, of a very serious character,
were yet by no means mortal, nor even dangerous. Having
expressed the utmost delight at seeing his visiter —

" Now, my guardian angel," he said, smiling, and address-
ing Elleanor, " what can I do for you that will sufficiently
express the gratitude I feel for the assistance you rendered
me yesterday ?"

Elleanor blushingly replied, that she wanted no reward —
that such was not her motive for what she did — and that she
was perfectly satisfied with the reflection that she had aided
a fellow-creature in the hour of his need.

" Yes, yes," said the captain, smiling ; " all very well, my
kind, good lady; but, though that may satisfy you, it will
not satisfy me. By the way," he abruptly added, " J
believe I have never yet told you who I am. I forgot to
give you my address. My name is Allenton, I"-

" Allenton, sir !" here hurriedly interrupted Williamson.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you the lion. Captain James
Allenton, son of Lord Allenton ?"

" The same, my good fellow," replied Captain Allenton,
with a smile and a look of some surprise. "• Do you know
me, or any of my friends in Berwickshire, in Scotland?"

" That I do, sir ; I know your father well, and I knew you
too when a boy — that is to say, I know your father as nn
humble tenant may know a great landlord, and you as his
son."

"Why, this is odd," said Captain Allenton; "very odd.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

801

You were a tenant of my father' s, then. Pray, where did
you live ?' '

" At Woodlee, sir," replied Williamson.

" Ah, I recollect the place well. A beautiful spot."

" It is, sir," said Williamson, with a sigh, which was re-
sponded to by his wife. " Would I were there again ! Many
a happy day I have spent in it."

" And why did you leave it, my good fellow?" inquired
Captain Allenton, in a friendly tone.

Williamson answered the question by briefly recapitulating
certain of those particulars of his history which are already
before the reader.

When he had done, Captain Allenton, after thinking for
some little time, asked him, directing the question by a look
at the same time to his wife, whether he would like to be
again set down at Woodlee.

" Oh, sir, nothing on earth we would like so well as that,"
exclaimed Elleanor ; " but that's out o' the question now."

" Perhaps not," said Captain Allenton, musingly. Then
added, after a pause — " I think I could manage that matter
for you, if you really wish it ; and I'll do it. Leave the affair
in my hands."

Need we pursue our story beyond this point ? We feel
that we need not. A consummation, the reader will see, is
at hand, and the sooner we now arrive at it the better.

Captain Allenton procured Williamson's discharge — this
was his first step— and nearly at the same time presented
him with a remission of the debt due to his father — paid
his and his wife's passage to Scotland — got them reinstated
at Woodlee — stocked their farm — advanced money to Wil-
liamson to discharge all his old debts — and, in short, set him
once more fairly agoing in the world. Williamson prospered.
lie entered into no more speculations, but stuck steadily to
the business of his farm, and was contented with its slow
but comparatively certain return. Captain Allenton in time
became Lord Allenton; and when he did so, and settled down
a married man and sedate country gentleman at Merlin
Castle, he was a frequent caller at Woodlee, and on such
occasions took much pleasure in reminding Elleanor of
their first acquaintance on the field of Waterloo.

RINGAN OLIVER.

THKUK is, perhaps, no traditionary history so popular in
Jed Forest as that of Ringan Oliver of Smailcleughfoot.
Ringan was one of the champions of the Covenant — one of
those stern, devoted worthies to whom Scotland owes so
much of its civil and religious liberty. He was a man of
uncommon strength and courage, excelling in every athletic
exercise, but especially in that of the broadsword, in which
lie might be said to be almost matchless. It is reported of
him, that he measured nearly a yard across the shoulders,
being otherwise well built in proportion ; and also that,
when an old man, he could have taken up in the wield of
his arm a ten half-fu' boll of barley, and thrown it on a
horse's back with the utmost ease. Of his early life there
are comparatively few anecdotes preserved ; but it would
appear that he was all along a steady and active supporter
of his party ; for it is well known that he fought in many,
if not in all of the battles wherein his misused country
asserted its disposition never to submit to misrule and
tyranny. At the skirmish of Drumclog he fought side by
side with Hackston of Rathillet, and Hall of Haughead,
and won their especial applause by his bravery ; and at
Bothwell Bridge he was one of the three hundred who,
under Hackston and Hall, so well contested the passage,
and for a while withstood the repeated efforts of Monmouth's
army. In this service, besides being severely wounded, he
had his hip joint dislocated, but was saved from fulling

nto the hands of the enemy by the exertions of his friends,
.n the long and relentless persecution to which the Cove-
lanters were subjected by this unfortunate battle, Ringan,
ike many others, was a proscribed fugitive. While under
hiding, he was much in the company of his friend Hall— a
man to whose character his own, in many points, closely
approximated, and with whose family, at a subsequent period,
ie was connected by marriage. The fate of Hall swell
tnown. He lost his life at Queensferry, in defending him-
self when about to be taken by the governor of Blackness.
He had parted from Ringan only a short while before this
:iappened ; and bitterly, bitterly did the latter ever after-
wards regret his being from the side of a friend to whom he
was so much attached, in his hour of need. But in those
days, when oppression and slaughter made such cruel mastery
of an afflicted country, the regrets of friendship were par-
ticularly unavailing.

The dark period of crime and bloodshed at length ended
in the Revolution ; and Ringan, whose principles forbade
liim to remain idle while the good work was unfinished,
again girt on his sword and gave his services to the army
that was sent to oppose the rebellion of Dundee. He was
at the battle of Killiecrankie, where he greatly distinguished
himself, killing, as it is said, all that came before him. - In
the disastrous defeat and dispersion of Mackay's army which
followed, he and a small party of friends, by keeping to-
gether, made good their retreat, and reached Dunkeld next
morning a little after daybreak. Here a circumstance
occurred which sufficiently proves that Ringan lacked
nothing of the true spirit of chivalry — a quality, by the way,
for which the Covenanters were not much celebrated — their
fighting not being for personal honour, but for the establish-
ment of what they considered to be the true kingdom of
Christ, and the extirpation of Popery, Prelacy, and Erasti-
anism. The party had halted at a friend's house in the
town, for the purpose of taking some refreshment, and had
just seated themselves at table, when their ears were regaled
by a proclamation made on the street opposite their window.
It was bawled forth, in tones of fire and brimstone, from
the leathern lungs of an ancient, smoke-dried Highland
drummer, and ran as follows : —

" Ockilow, an' a petter ochilow ! This is to pe kiving
notice to all it may pe concerning, that Rory Dhu Mhore,
of ta clan Donochy, will pe keeping ta crown of ta cause-
way, in ta town of Tunkeld, for wan hour an muore; an' he
is tesiring it civilly to pe known, that, if there pe any cant-
ing, poohooing, psalm-singing, Whig repellioner in ta toun,
let him pe so bould as to pe coming forth from his holes,
an' looking ta said Rory Dhu in ta face ; an' ta said Rory
Dhu hereby kives promise to pe so fhery condescending as
to pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter py ta lugs,
for ta honour of King Shames. Ochilow ! Cot save King
Shames \"

Weary, dispirited, and satiated with carnage as he was,
this ridiculous challenge was so uniformly insulting in its
tenor, that Ringan did not for a moment hesitate in resolv-
ing to answer it. His friend* left no argument untried ^to
dissuade him from his purpose ; they represented to him
what madness it was for men in their condition to notice
every foolish bravado ; also, what small chance he would
have of anything like fair play, in a place so decidedly in
favour of a barbarous enemy; and, these means failing,
they made fast the door, in hopes to restrain him by per-
sonal force ; — but all was in vain — his determination was
fixed, not to be shaken.

" My friends," said he, rising, and grasping his sword,
" let me out, I beseech you. I must and will fight with
this Philistine. God do so to me and more also, if I do
not either humble this proud boaster, or he shall humble
me."

The words had not been well spoken, before the speaker

302

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had made his way through the window, and in a few mo-
ments more had confronted the challenger, who was parad-
ing the street a few paces in rear of the old drummer. The
challenger,, it maybe remarked, was a Highlandman among
a thousand. To a gigantic stature and a Herculean make,
he added the reputation of being one of the best swords-
men of his day, having slain more men in single fight than he
was years old. He was, besides, a personage of the most
ferocious air and aspect ; and, as he now appeared in all his
accoutrements, striding along and bearing himself so proudly,
with his head thrown back, and his turned up nose scorn-
fully snuffing the morning wind, the sight might well have i
appalled any Christian that had the least regard for the '
thing called self-preservation.

" Diaoul ! fwat may she pe that will pe approaching, in
such ways and manners, pefore a Highland shentlemans ?"
asked Rory Dhu Mhore, of the clan Donochy — already
snorting with choler at sight of an antagonist.

" I am," said Ringan, calmly, " the soldier of King
William, our temporal deliverer, and the servant, however
unworthy, of King Christ, our Spiritual Redeemer ; and
here I stand to bid you make good your proud and profane
boasting."

" Fhery goot, inteet," returned Rory Dhu; writhing his
grim features into a sneer of the most haughty contempt ;
" f hery goot, inteet. You were after suppering at Killie-
crankie, and now you are after a preakfast at Dunkeld.
And you shall have it !" roared the speaker, drawing his
sword, and brandishing it round his head. " Come on, you
everlasting Lowland baist, and I will pe kiving your carrion
to the crows of the airth."

Thus menaced, Ringan lost not a moment in drawing in
his turn; and the combat commenced. For some time its issue
appeared somewhat doubtful. With regard to both strength
and skill, the parties were well matched ; but the Highland-
man, besides being the fresher of the two, had retained his
target — the use of which gave him, in the long run, no small
advantage. Ringan soon became aware of the oversight he
had been guilty of in fighting upon an unequal footing ; but
it was now too late to remonstrate. In all his battles he
had never, by individual prowess, been so hard bestedd. :
The longer he fought, the more was he sensible the day went j
against him. Both he and his enemy were wounded ; but [
his own wounds were the most severe, and he experienced |
so much faintness that, ultimately, he was able only to pro- i
tract the contest by yielding ground, and warding off the fast- !
coming blows. His friends saw his condition, and their1
hopes grew faint ; but when at length they saw his antagon- i
ist bear so hard upon him as to bring him to his knee, they •
gave up his fate as decided. But in this they were happily i
mistaken ; for, while every eye was strained to see him i
receive the finishing blow, the fortune of the war, by one o.
those circumstances which so frequently baffle foresight,
was instantaneously reversed. In his eagerness to finish the
work, the Highlandman had for a moment forgot to pre-
serve his defensive ; and the Borderer, who had been watch-
ing for this as his last charfte, summoned all his lagging
vigour, and directed a thrust at a part of his opponent's body
left uncovered by the target ; which thrust proved effectual,
the steel piercing him through the entrails. On receiving
the fatal wound, and so unexpectedly, Rory Dhu Mhore, of
the clan Donochy, uttered a loud abrupt roar, like that of a
stricken ox, sprang several feet upwards into the air, and then
tumbled down upon the causeway, a dying man A. yell of
mingled grief and rage, for the fall of their champion, burst
from such of the spectators as were his friends ; and, as it
was accompanied by a general rush towards the immediate
scene of contest, it is likely that the victor M'ould have
been butchered on the spot, had not his fellows been on the
alert, and ready at the instant to surround him and bear him
hack to their quarters — a service which they accomplished

with some difficulty, and no small danger. To have pro-
longed their stay in Dunkeld, under the existing circum
stances, would have been madness. The party, therefore,
after Ringan's wounds had been hastily dressed, and his
strength recruited by some slight refreshment, left the house
by a back door, gained the Tay unobserved, and, getting
across in a chance boat, took the road to Perth without
molestation. It is more than probable, however, that the
fugitives would not have been allowed to escape so easily,
had not the intelligence just been received in Dunkeld of the
fall of Lord Dundee — a circumstance more adverse to the
hopes of the Jacobites than if his victory had been a defeat.

The wounds which Ringan had received in the duel did
not prevent him from immediately joining the Cameronian
regiment, under the gallant Cleland, nor from returning-
with it to Dunkeld, within the brief period of three weeks,
to act a conspicuous part in the defence of that place against
the forces of Colonel Cannan, Dundee's successor. But the
memory of this action, in which a handful of brave men
withstood, and eventually repulsed, an army above five
times their own number, occupies a brilliant place in the
page of history.

After the liberties of his country had been fully secured,
Ringan returned home, to spend the remainder of his life in
the bosom of his family, and in the undisturbed exercise of
the duties of his religion. He resided at Smailcleuchfoot —
a small farm which he held of Lord Douglas, distant three
miles from Jedburgh, and half a mile from Ferniehirst, then
the seat of the Marquis of Lothian. In his retirement or
the •' sylvan Jed," the old Covenanter was not more famed
for his feats as a warrior .than he was respected as a most
intelligent man, whose integrity was unimpeachable. His
character did not escape the notice of his neighbour the
Marquis, who not only held him in high estimation, but fre-
quently sought his counsel in affairs of the greatest moment.
This friendship, however, was ultimately destined to prove
the source of the brave old man's ruin. The Marquis, on
being called to London by some pressing business, sent
for Ringan before his departure, and, shewing him a
room in Ferniehirst Castle wherein lay his most valuable
papers, gave him the key thereof, and told him that he
left it to his exclusive keeping during his absence. This
honorary trust he accepted ; but soon had reason to think
that it was not without its perils. No sooner was the
Marquis gone, than his son and heir, who, it would appear,
was a very different man from his father, came to Ringan,
and peremptorily demanded the key. It needs scarcely be
said that this demand was met by a respectful but decided
refusal. The young man, however, was unwilling to be
said nay ; he entreated, threatened, and even mistook his
man so far as to proffer bribes ; but all was to no purpose —
Ringan was by no means to be wrought upon ; he turned
away from the unprincipled supplicant, with only a look
of indignant contempt. Time wore away — the Marquis
returned, and found that he had not misplaced his confi-
dence. Everything in the strong room remained in the
exact condition in which he had left it. In restoring the
key to its owner, and receiving his acknowledgments, the
old man made no mention of the applications wherewith he
had been insulted in the discharge of his trust ; for he con-
sidered that such a disclosure, however consistent it might
be with duty, could not be made without wounding the
feelings of a father.

• Shortly after this event, the old nobleman died, and was
succeeded in his titles and estates by his son. The new
Marquis, who had never for a moment forgot the contumacy
of Ringan in the matter of the key, now determined upon
the gratification of his revenge ; and the contiguity of the
Covenanter's farm to the baronial residence, rendered this
task comparatively easy of accomplishment. Incited by
their lord, the vassals of Ferniehirst commenced a regular

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

303

series of insults and injuries, not only to the old man in
person, but to all that belonged to hi iii. For a long time
Ringau bore this bad treatment patiently, resenting it
neither by word nor deed. He knew that it was in vain
for him to attempt contending with so powerful an adver-
sary, and thought to disarm his malice by non-resistance
But in this he was mistaken ; his forbearance producec
only fresh and aggravated persecution. At last it fell out,
on a harvest clay, that the Marquis, having gathered to-
gether a company of his retainers, with horses and hounds,
crossed the Jed, and chose for a hunting ground Ringan's
field of barley ; the grain being dead ripe, and ready for
the sickle. This outrage was not to be borne, Ringan
went to the huntsmen, and civilly, but firmly, told them to
desist from hunting in his field, as they were utterly de-
stroying his crop.

" And pray, Father Greybeard/' asked the person who
icted as chief huntsman, " are you to prescribe limits to
where my Lord Marquis is to sport, and where he is not ?
Let me give you a small piece of advice, my old hero — carry
yourself home, and look to the preservation of your health,
by keeping your feet warm and your pate rather cool."

To this talk the old man made reply, that he was unac-
customed to jesting ; that in what he requested of them
there was nothing unreasonable ; and he concluded by say-
ing that, if they persisted in the destruction of his corn, he
would certainly shoot their dogs.

" Foh ! go home and pray, you old canting scoundrel,"
cried the huntsman. " Shoot our dogs, indeed ! I'll tell you
what, if you persist much longer in insulting gentlemen,
we will hunt you to your old haunts — the hills."

This provocation was far too gross for the spirit of the
old man to brook. He retired into the house, and, return-
ing with his gun, instantly put his threat in execution, by
shooting two of the hounds. In Laving driven him to the
commission of this act, the huntsmen had attained their
purpose ; they, therefore, now departed, uttering vows of
deep vengeance. The Marquis rode directly to the sheriff
of the county, and complained that he had been interrupted
in his field-sports by an old Cameronian rascal, who had
given him insulting language, and shot two of his best dogs.
A summons was immediately issued for Ringan to appear
and answer for his misdemeanour at the sheriff-court ; but
he refused to comply ; " for," said he, " I have done no
wrong ; I am accused neither by my God nor my conscience.
"What I did was done in defence of my lawful property,
and I am resolved to abide by the issue, whether it be for
weal or wo."

The offender proving thus contumacious, the next thing
to be done was to prepare a warrant for his apprehension,
and for bringing him to justice by force. But in this course
an unforeseen difficulty presented itself — no sheriff's officer
could be found that would undertake to put the 'warrant
in execution, it being well known that the old man Avould
Aever suffer personal restraint without making a stout re-
sistance. In this dilemma the sheriff could think of no
plan of proceeding against the accused party so feasible as
that of employing against him his accuser. He accordingly
lodged the warrant in the hands of the Marquis, telling him
to secure the old rebel at all events. " If one man," said
the sheriff, " be insufficient for the purpose, take two ; if two
cannot do the business, take three, take ten, take fifty, take
a hundred if you will ; but secure him, alive or dead."
Thus authorized and encouraged, the Marquis hastily col-
lected and armed a large party of his friends and vassals,
and set about the instant execution of his enterprise.
Ringan, meanwhile, had seen the storm gathering around
him : and now that it was about to burst on his defenceless
grey head, he felt no dismay. His friends would have ad.
vised him to seek safety in flight ; but this he refused,
saying — " I fled not from danger when I was young and

desirous of living, and shall I flee now, when I am old and
ready for the grave ? lie charged his advisers that they were
upon no account to take any part in his quarrel, as their
doing so could serve little purpose, and would infallibly be
the means of drawing down vengeance upon themselves.
Accordingly, when the Marquis and his little army were
seen approaching Smailcleughfoot, Ringan's friends and
family—none of the latter being able to lend him any assist-
ance—retired from the house, and stationed themselves on
the top of a high scaur immediately opposite, where they
might witness the issue of the contest. The old man was
not, however, left altogether alone ; he had an auxiliary in
the person of a devoted maid-servant, whom no entreaties
could induce to desert her loved and revered master in the
time of need. With her help he secured the door and
windows, putting the house into as good a state of defence as
circumstances would admit of. He next collected together
all the firearms in his possession — these consisting of two 01
three old rusty muskets, and as many horse pistols and in-
structed the maid in the process of loading them. These
preparations had scarcely been made before his assailants
were close at hand. They halted at a short distance in front
of the house ; and, on his presenting himself at a window,
Sir John Rutherford — a friend of the Marquis, acting as
leader and spokesman of the -party — summoned him to sur-
render himself their prisoner, otherwise, by virtue of the
sheriff's warrant, they would proceed to take him by force
of arms.

" Sirs," said Ringan, " you shall have my answer in few
words. I will surrender my liberty to no one so long as I
can defend it, or at least till you can make it appear that
I have been guilty of a breach of the laws of my country.
But this you cannot do, for I have done no wrong to any
one, and therefore protest against all your proceedings as
oppressive and cruel."

" Hillo, hillo ! — none of your preaching, old fellow,"
cried Sir John. " You are going to favour us with a new
act and testimony. In a word, do you surrender yourself
our prisoner, or do you not ?"

" I do not," was the reply, given in a firm tone. " I am
ready, God supporting me, to defend myself to the last
extremity."

" Forward, then, my friends !" cried Sir John. " Let us
burst open the door, and drag the old canting thief out by
the ears."

In obedience to this command, the besiegers had ad-
vanced a few steps, when the besieged presented his mus-
ket, and told them to approach the door at their peril.

" The old rebel resists the course of justice — shoot him,
friends !" cried Sir John Rutherford ; and he had not the
words well uttered when half-a-score of carabines flashed
and their contents rattled through the window at which the
old man was stationed.

" Bad ball practice for so many," coolly remarked the
veteran, as, levelling his musket, he fired in his turn, and
with such narrow effect that the bullet carried away one
of the curls of Sir John Rutherford's wig.

Actual hostilities having thus commenced, both the attack
and the defence were, from this time forward, carried on
with unabating vigour. Shower after shower of bullets
rattled and rang through the windows : one detachment of
the besiegers attempting to burst open the door, and another
to set fire to the roof ; but the efforts of neither were at-
tended with success — the door being of trusty oak, and the
thatch of the roof too damp to burn. The besieged, on
their part, were no less aclive than their assailants; while,
to their strength, they were certainly both more skilful and
determined. The maid supplied her master with loaded
guns ; and he kept up so brisk and well-directed a fire, that
his enemies were repulsed in every attempt they made to
effect an ingress by the windows, or those parts of the

304

TALES OF THE BOHDERS.

liousc that were of themselves the least defensible. How
long this unequal warfare might have lasted, it is hard to say,
had not the course of events been precipitated by the fate
of Ringan's faithful assistant. The old man had cautioned
the maid against exposing herself within the range of the
enemy's guns, telling her to keep always close behind him ;
but, in her zeal to render him good service, this caution was
neglected — a bullet pierced her heart— she uttered but one
sigh, and fell dead at 'his feet. All the veteran warrior's
self-possession now forsook him : he instantly adopted the
desperate resolution of opposing himself to the dastardly
murderers in an open field ; of being fully avenged, or — he
did not care which— of perishing in the attempt. Grasp-
ing his broadsword in one hand, and a heavy axe in the
other, he undid the door, and was in the act of springing
forth, when — his foot having got entangled in a rope which
had been used in fastening a bolt — he fell, and, ere he could
recover himself, a ruffianly wretch of the name of Allan, a
tinker, struck him on the head with a forehammer — the
blow stunning him and breaking his jawbone. To remove
his weapons and bind his hands was now the work of a
moment ; and it was attended with neither difficulty nor
danger, as he was past making the least resistance. When
his senses began to recover, his eyes opened first upon the
Marquis, who, probably fearing he had carried his revenge
too far, was bending over his victim, and wiping the blood
from his face, in order to ascertain the extent of his injury.
Instantly the old man darted on his oppressor a look of stern
reproach, and, spurning him from him with his foot, told
him that he could endure his hatred but not his kindness.
The victors now led their prisoner away, and, as they crossed
the Jed at Ferniehirst Mill, where there is a fine well, the
old man, feeling faint from his loss of blood, begged for a
little of the water.

" Poor Ringan !" cried the Marquis, half in pity, half in
mockery — " give him a drink, by all means — perhaps it may
help to cool his choler."

" Young man," said the captive, with, dignity, " I £
in your power, and your childish taunts cannot, therefore,
insult me. You have finished your day's work, and I can-
not help saying, that it has been a day's work more befitting
a butcher than a Scottish nobleman. It is well that your
father is in his grave ; he has been spared from witnessing
his son's degeneracy."

The rest of Ringan's story shall be briefly told. He was
conveyed to Jedburgh, and from thence to Edinburgh,
where he was imprisoned in the Tolbooth. After a con-
finement of eight years, he was at length released, but so
much altered in appearance, that they who had known him
well in his better days, could not now recognise him. He
survived the date of his release only a few years, and died
in a house in the Crosscauseway, Edinburgh, in 173(5. He
was buried among the martyrs in Greyfriars' churchyard.

It may not be unpleasing to add, that Ringan left behind
him a son named Robert, who was a child at the time of
his father's capture, and who, after he had .grown a man
met with Allan the tinker at the well near Ferniehirst Mill
Robert had long tracked the old fellow, -with a desire to
inflict on him that punishment which the station of his
father's other enemies placed it beyond his power to inflict
The tinker was sitting at the side of the small well, with
his wallet open before him, a female companion alongside
of him, and in the act of enjoying that " feast of liberty'
in which all strollers so much delight.

" Meantime, far hind, out owre the lee,
Fu' snug, in a glen whar nane could see,
Thir twa, in kindly sport and glee,
Cut frae a new cheese a whang."

And, every now and then, the old gaberlunzie was trilling
in an old, broken, but still joyous voice, some of the ok
lilts that, in his younger days, were composed on the grea

religious contest in which he had taken a part. Again lie
applied to his wallet ; and he did not hesitate, old as he was,
to have occasional recourse to the lips of her who sat beside
him.

" The prceing was guid, it pleased them baith ;

To loc her for aye he gave his aith;

Quo scho, ' To leave thce I will be laith,

My winsome gaberlunzie man.' "

The scene roused the blood of Robert, who thought of
the treacherous and cruel part the old sinner before him
had played on that melancholy occasion, when his father's
misfortunes were crowned with the last and greatest of his
evils. Stepping forward, he accosted the loving couple, and
deliberately took his seat by the side of the well, from
which his father had, on that memorable day, been denied
a drink of its pure water.

" Ha ! callant !" cried Allan, " I hae seen the time when
a drap o' that water was prayed for by an auld, cantio
Camcronian, as if it had belangcd to that spring o' life they
thought nane had ony richt to drink frae but themselves.
But the deil a drap o't he got, the auld prayin rynk ; and
his wizzened craig was left to wheezle forth his prayers, or
curses on the heads o' them wha fought for the guid cause
o' the kirk and ' the man.' "

" What was the name o' the prayin rynk, as ye ca' him?"
said Robert.

" Wha hasna heard o' Ringan Oliver, the Cameronian ?"
replied Allan. « Faith, an' he was nae feckless smaik that,
either in bane, limb, or lire. How he did drive his lang
iron kevel into the wames o' the troopers, and murgeoned his
Cameronian aiths as he saw their smolt spirits scour awa
to heaven like fire flaughts ! But it was braw to see the
auld scoundrel worry wi' drouth on the day when he couldna
get a drink frae that wall to cool his burnin craig."

" Stand up, my freen," said Robert, rising in great wrath,
and, taking the old beggar's stick, put it into his hands.
" Stand up. A man that's no owre auld ^ to love and lee,
is no owre auld to fecht in his ain defence."

The sturdy carle sought his feet, and, clutching his burly
knotted piece of oak, asked the plea of battle.

" I am Ringan Oliver's son," cried Robert, while his
eyes flashed a fire that told his deadly revenge.

" And a stalwart warlock ye are," replied the tinker ;
" but, auld as I am, I'll mense my staff against yours yet, for
the memory o' that auld Cameronian wolf."

And he did not wait for the onset of his younger foe, but
dealt a heavy blow on the head of Robert, Avho was, in the
meantime, laid hold of by the gipsy quean behind,
youth and vigour, however, were too much for his opponents.
The first sturdy blow brought the beggar to his knees ; and,
while he was rising, Robert put the woman hors lie combat,
and then returned to wreak his vengeance on his principal
enemy.- This he did with so much address and stern deter-
mination, that he left him lying on the ground all but dead.

Thus was one of the enemies of his father punished ;
1 and often did Robert try to get some satisfaction for the
old man's Avrongs from those who had a greater share in his
misfortunes ; but in this he never succeeded. They lay
beyond his reach; and the chief workman, to whom so much
responsibility attached itself, was allowed to go free. Such,
alas, is the way of the world ! It only remains to be said,
that the old champion's broadsword— a true Andrew Ferrara
—is still preserved. It is at present in the possession ol
his collateral descendant, Mr James Veitch of Inchbonny,
by Jedburgh, the self-taught natural philosopher.

WILSON'S

l, arvafctttonavg, an&

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE DESTITUTE.

IT was one of the coldest nights, for the season, I had been
out in ; the wind blew from the north-west — not strong, but
with a keenness that pierced me to the bone, and made me
turn my head aside to shelter my face from it. I was well
protected against the utmost inclemency of the season, by
all that the weaver and tailor could provide for man's com-
fort— my mind had been full of enjoyment for the last few
hours — I was hurrying to a comfortable home — all was cal-
culated to make me happy ; yet, shrinking from the cold,
a shade of melancholy came over me, as I practically felt the
misery of those who, ill-provided for the encounter, were
suffering from the bitter blast. In this frame of mind I had
proceeded through several streets of the city, when a faint
sob fell upon my ear. I started and looked around. ' The
hour was late — scarcely a person was upon the streets, the
watchmen alone were pacing their weary rounds, shivering
under their extra clothing. I could see no one from whom
the sound might have proceeded. Thinking I was deceived,
I was on the point of passing on, when the same sound again,
but more faintly, claimed my attention. I turned to the
spot from whence it came. That it proceeded from intensity
of suffering, I had no doubt. Drawing more near, I could
hear deep sighs, as if some one were weeping in secret ; and,
Sjuided by the sounds, I at length discovered, in the dark
shade of a stair-foot, a female figure, lying extended on the
steps, cold and wretched, and thus giving these eloquent
expressions of her misery. That it was one of the melan-
choly victims of vice and dissipation, I had no doubt ; yet my
heart smote me as I thought of leaving her, perhaps to die.

" Poor creature !" said I, " why do you lie weeping there ?
You will die by the cold and severity of the weather. Why
do you not go home ?"

" Alas, sir !" said she, with an air of modesty that shook
my first opinion, " I have no home, I have no friend on
earth. I am a destitute creature, whose sorrows are nearly
past. Do not think ill of me. I am poor, but not wicked."
Her tears choked her utterance. My heart bled for her, but I
\vas at a loss what to do, for I thought of the censorious world,
which is so fond of putting the worst construction on actions
't cannot appreciate. As I stood irresolute, the watchman
came up, and, in an insulting manner, ordered us to be gone,
or he would take us to the watchhouse. I was immediately
relieved from my dilemma.

" Take this unfortunate girl with you," said I, " or she
must perish."

" Very likely," said he, with an incredulous grin. '< You
desire me to take her to the watchhouse — has she robbed you,
or what has she done to merit my care ?"

rt I wish you to save her life," replied I.

" I cannot take her unless you commit and go with her,"
said he, sarcastically.

"Do you know her?" I inquired. He held his lantern
to her face.

" No," he replied — " I never saw her in my life before."

Struck by the first sight I got of the object of my soli-
citude, I looked at her narrowly. She appeared to be about
twenty years of age, and had the appearance of being pretty ;
143. Vol. III.

but her face was pale, wasted to a shadow, and shrunk by
famine ; her slender person was bent together by the intense
cold ; and she was so thinly clad, that I was astonished she
had resisted the blast for a couple of hours. On hearing
what had passed between the watchman and me, she sank
upon her knees, and implored us to leave her to her fate
rather than send her to the watchhouse. The stern
guardian of the night seemed to think there was something
uncommon in her manner, and was moved. I endeavoured
to soothe her fears — told her that I was only actuated by
humanity — had no other way of serving her for the night —
and that it was too untimeous an hour to find for her a
lodging. She, atlength, gave a reluctant consent. I took off
my warm greatcoat, wrapped it round her fragile form, and,
taking her arm, moved along through the silent streets. She
sobbed bitterly as we proceeded, but said nothing. We
entered the watchhouse ; and, as she cast her eyes on its in-
mates, she clung to my arm, fearful I should leave her. The
lieutenant on duty inquired what charge I had to make
against the female. I briefly told him the circumstances of
the case, and said I would with pleasure pay any expense
that was incurred on her account. He rang for the female
housekeeper. I resumed my coat, bade her good night,
said I would call in the morning to see her, and hurried
home.

The image of this unfortunate girl haunted me in my
dreams the whole night. I was walking with her in sunny
meadows and bowers, the happiest of men — anon, I beheld
her plunged in want, while I, unable to relieve her, felt yet
bound to her by a tie I could not break. Our sufferings
seemed mutual. We were struggling in a desolate waste
amidst endless wreaths of snow, on the point of sinking,
when my sufferings awoke me, stiff with cold. I had, in my
disturbed sleep, partially uncovered myself. It was still long
until day. I resumed my position, and waited anxiously for
dawn, while a thousand fancies floated through my mind.
Morning came ; I rose, and, having breakfasted, proceeded
to the office, to inquire after the unfortunate stranger thus
unaccountably placed under my charge, and learn the cause
of her destitution. The housekeeper told me that she was
very ill — unable to leave her bed ; that she had been with
her, less or more, during the whole night ; that she had
fainted when placed in the warm bedroom, and had been with
difficulty restored to animation ; that her stomach refused
nourishment for a considerable time; that her mind wandered
as if she were in a fever ; and that, at present, she was in a
troubled sleep, muttering and weeping. Much concerned at
this account, and resolved not to be humane by halves, I went
to a medical friend, and, having related the whole circum-
stances to him as far as I knew them, he cheerfully accom-
panied me to the object of our compassion, whom we found in
a high fever and unconscious of all around her. During the
forenoon she was removed to the public hospital, where she
remained in a precarious state for several weeks. I saw her
everyday once ; and, as she became convalescent, contributed
to her recovery by my attentions and assurances of every
aid and protection I had it in my power to bestow. Some-
times she would weep and thank me, in a voice so soft and
gentle that it came over my soul like music ; while her smile
of gratitude had a charm for me I had never before ex-

3C6

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

perienced. I felt more pleasure in the half hour I visited
her in her recovery, than I thought it was possible for me
to enjoy in this world of sorrow. My first embarrassment
was how to dispose of her when she left the hospital, which
she was now nearly able to do. I had not as yet heard her
story, nor did I know who she was, further than that her name
was Mary Monro; but I could perceive, from the delicacy of her
manners and address, that she had been unaccustomed to
move among the lower grades of life. A crowded hospital
is no place for confidential conversation, and I had not as
yet put any inquiries to her as to her former life, or the
cause of her present misfortunes ; but this I resolved to do
when she wasstronger, andafavourableopportunitypresented
itself. Having no female relative in Edinburgh to whom *
could apply, I had recourse to my landlady, who, after some
hesitation and numerous scruples, went and paid her a visit.
Upon her return, I was pleased to find that she was as much, if
not more interested about herthan I was, and proposed, of her
own accord, to bring her home, if I would remunerate her
for any expense she might incur. I cheerfully agreed to
the proposition ; and, next forenoon, Mary was an inmate
with me in the same house. During the same evening we
were all seated at tea in my small parlour, as happy as grati-
tude and good actions could make us ; and she, at my request,
gave us her story.

" Alas, sir ! misery and I have but newly become ac-
quainted. Twelve months are scarcely past since I thought
it could never be my portion to suffer a thousandth part of
what I have endured ; for I knew want and privation only
by name, and have wept for the misery of others who were
not nearly so destitute as I was on that dreadful night
when your humanity rescued me from death. I really,
then, did wish to die ; for I was alone in the world — help-
less ; and humanity, I thought, had fled from the breasts of
men. My bosom was the abode of despair. The religious
principles instilled into me by my sainted mother, alone
withheld me from self-destruction. My sinful impatience
urged me to shorten my sufferings ; but my better thoughts
ever returned, in the words of my blessed parent — ' What
are a few days of suffering here on earth, to be compared
to an eternity of misery ; or years of guilty pleasure, to
endless wrath ? The eye of God is on all his creatures,
beaming sympathy, or flaring anger; and He will, in his
good time, do that which is right.' Thus was my parent
my guide and counsellor in my extreme need, although she
lies buried and forgot by all but me.

My father was born in Edinburgh, the son of a mer-
chant, who intended him for one of the learned professions,
and educated him accordingly ; but his inclinations were
all to a seafaring life. He left his home against the wish or
knowledge of his parents, and went to sea, where, unaided,
he rose rapidly to be captain of a vessel which traded be-
tween Liverpool and the different seaports of America.
He continued to prosper, and, while he was yet a young
man, he sailed his own ship. In one of his voyages home
from America, the convoy of which the Betsy, his vessel,
was one, was overtaken and dispersed by a storm off the
coast of Ireland, in which several of them perished. The
Betsy weathered the gale, with very little damage, and
was again making for her destination, when my father per-
ceived from the deck, as the morning dawned, the wreck
of a vessel drifting at a considerable distance, and ap-
parently without any person on board. Urged by humanity,
he altered his course, bore down upon the wreck, lowered
his boat and rowed on board ; but what a sight met his
eyes ! Several of the crew were still on deck, but all be-
yond his aid, having died lashed to different parts of the
wreck. She was completely water-logged ; and my father,
thinking there was no living person on board, was on the
point of leaving her, when a faint sigh or moan fell on his
ear — makin"1 a strange oontrast with the silence of death

that reigned around — as if uttered by some one on board
the wooden Golgotha. The sound startled him. Once
more he examined the livid corpses around, and was satis-
fied it could not have proceeded from them. He thought he
had been deceived by a morbid imagination, when again
the same sound was distinctly heard, coming apparently
from the cabin, the skylight of which had been broken in
the storm. He looked down, but saw nothing save a
watery waste, in which floated broken furniture, fragments
of finery, and other memorials of the vanity of life. Con-
scious he was not deceived, yet astonished how a human
being could be in life below, he made his Avay into the
cabin, where he could perceive no one, until, after examin-
ing the upper berths, he found an old gentleman, apparently
dead, but still warm, and, alongside of him, a young female,
from whom the moans had proceeded, and, to all appear-
ance, at the point of death. Both were removed to the
deck as promptly as circumstances would admit. Life was
found not yet extinct in the old man, and the lady appearea
to revive. They were taken on board the Betsy, and, by
careful nursing, restored to life.

They were father and daughter. I need not say their
gratitude to my father was unbounded. The gentleman
was a rich merchant of Philadelphia, who was on his way
to Britain, to visit the home of his youth, and see once
more, before he died, the friends whom death had spared.
Between the daughter and her deliverer an attachment
arose, to which her father was not averse ; and they were
wed. The object of your bounty was the only child of
this marriage. My father, as his wife's possessions lay
principally there, settled in Philadelphia until the death of
his father-in-law, which happened in the third year of their
marriage, when my father became rich and independent ; but
his whole mind and affections being in Scotland, the land
of his fathers, he sold off all his American possessions, and
returned to his native country, where I was born, in the
fifth year of their marriage. My mother, who was of a
delicate constitution, dedicated her whole attention to my
education, until I was deprived of her by death in my
twelth year. (Excuse these tears, for her image is now
before me.) We had resided for the greater part of this
time at a delightful and sequestered spot on the banks of
the Esk, within view of. the sea. Well do I remember
these scenes ; and even now I think I see my father sitting
in our garden, with my dear departed mother by his side,
while I would busy myself running from walk to walk,
plucking the gayest flowers for them, or sitting at their feet,
listening to their conversation, or amusing them with my
prattle.

In this period of happiness, joy, and peace — alas ! gone,
never to return — I was often surprised, and could scarce re-
strain my tears at what I witnessed. My mother had no
love for the sea, further than as it added to the beauty of
a landscape in which it was the principal object. The
delightful scene lay like a panorama before us, and stretched
around in all its varying, but never-tiring beauties. To the
east lay the fertile valleys and gently-swelling green hills of
the Lothians, studded with villas. Before us lay the shining
Frith of Forth, with its capacious mouth, and the romantic
and populous shores of Fife, with its town-studded margin
skirting the waves. To the west, mountain appeared to
tower over mountain, as they died away in the distant Gram-
pians and Pentland Hills, which begirt and bounded the

sw. To the left was the capital, like a jewel in rich
setting, surrounded by inferior gems, all glittering in the
soft and sober sun of autumn. As we sat, full of admiration
and enjoyment, avessel would pass down the Frith, glittering
in the sunbeams — its canvass swelling to the western breeze,
and gliding away like a thing of life ; and then would my
Father gaze, like a lover upon his mistress — his whole soul in
liis eyes — and follow her, absorbed in deep musing, while

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

307

sighs would escape him, and the meek, blue eyes of m\
mother would fill with tears, as she gazed with solicitude in
his face, until, overcome by her emotion, her head sank on
his hosom. Then again would he start, as if awakened froir
a dream, clasp her in his arms, and soothe her to quietude
ejaculating —

'Agnes, my love, what is the matter? Why these tears
What can cause you uneasiness ? — name it, and, if man can
I will remove it. Do you regret leaving America ? — do yoi
think the scenes around Philadelphia more lovely than
these ? Then I will return, rather than witness or caus
you an hour's regret.'

' Oh, no, William/ was her answer ; ' no scene on earth i
more dear to me than this — with you and my Mary, a deser
would be a garden ; but I fear you sacrifice too much o
your own enjoyment for my happiness. You regret — I can
read in your looks, as you gaze upon that vessel — you
not being on board of her. You love me, but you alsc

love the sea, and but excuse me, my love — I am :

foolish woman.'

' Is my Agnes jealous as she sees me look upon my firs
love at a distance ?' was his reply. ' Is not she a noble
creatui-e, and worthy of the admiration of all who look upon
her ? Is she not like a stately bride, robed in white, moving
in silence, to meet her beloved ? But, much as I admire her
and though I am indebted to her alone for my present happi-
ness, I shall never, for her, leave my Agnes.'

It was to such domestic scenes of happiness as these —
terminated by the death of my indulgent mother — that 1
have ever looked back with a mingled sensation of pleasure
and regret. Alas, sir ! she died ; and, for many months, my
father was the prey of the bitterest anguish. I was never
from his side, for he felt a consolation in mingling his tears
with mine ; but the abode of former happiness soon became
a painful residence. Where everything around recalled the
memory of the departed saint, their beauties had withered
away ; the individual who had prized and stamped value
upon them, now mouldered in the silent tomb ; and, though
the summer had returned in all its splendour, it only
deepened my father's gloom. He left the banks of the Esk,
and took a furnished lodging in Queen Street, where his
grief gradually began to subside into a gentle melancholy.
•Still comparatively a young man, in his thirty-sixth year,
idleness became irksome to him ; and, now that he had lost
the society of his beloved Agnes, having no relations alive
that he knew of — for he was an only son, and his parents had
died while he was at sea — he disposed of our house and gar-
den on the Esk, and we set off for Liverpool, where he was
both well-known and esteemed before his marriage. His
object was to get as far as possible from the scenes of his
former happiness. We at length arrived at Liverpool, and
hired a villa upon the banks of the Mersey ; but we felt no
enjoyment, for there the tedium became unbearable to my
father, and he began to join in the society of the merchants,
his former acquaintances, and, having capital to a great
amount at his command, he soon entered into all the spirit
of commercial enterprise. I now felt exceedingly lonely,
for I had but little of his company ; but I complained not,
for he was kind to me as ever, and the tedium of his absence
produced a keener relish of his endeared society. Yet
young, and with strong affections, I sighed for society con-
genial to my own age, and fell into a lowness of spirits
which alarmed him for my health, whereupon numerous
small parties of the sons and daughters of the merchants
were formed to amuse me, and I soon entered into their
Minusements with all the fervour of youth.

It was towards the end of summer, when the weather
\vns delightful, that one of the merchants, who had a
pleasure yacht, proposed an excursion in the Irish Channel
for a few days. I was invited, and began my preparations,
anxiously anticipating the greatest enjoyment, as my father

was to be of the party, and I inherited a love for the sea.
We started, at the appointed time, in health and spirits. It
was the middle of August ; the weather was mild and serene ;
our hearts swelled with delight ; and, as we glided along the
coast, covered with the profusion of autumn, and here and
there enlivened by the busy reapers, we wearied not of the
delightful moving panorama. Before twilight began to
darken into shade, we landed at the country residence of
the proprietor of the yacht, where we remained for the
night ; and so much had we enjoyed the day's amusement,
that it was proposed, and cheerfully agreed to by all, that we
should continue our excursion further than we had in-
tended at setting out. Next morning, accordingly, we sailed
for the Isle of Man, standing across the channel with a de-
lightful breeze. The whole ocean around, gently undulated,
lay like an extensive meadow covered with hay ready for
the mower. There was just swell enough to prevent the
liquid expanse from being monotonous to the eye ; and we
lounged upon the deck, listening to the songs we sung by
turns, or the melody of the German flutes, which several of
the young gentlemen had brought to vary our enjoyment.
Such was the situation of our happy party, when we
reached mid-channel, and were gazing on the rugged moun-
tains of the Isle of Man. All at once it fell dead calm, and
we lay listlessly upon the water, our sails hanging from the
masts — our disappointment great as had been our former
enjoyment ; and several peevish expressions were making
way among us, while the heat of the sun forced us below, to
shelter ourselves from his rays. The day slowly crept away ;
yet we dreaded the approach of night, for none of us were
! prepared for it. having no intention of being on the water
after nightfall. Anon the wind rose from an unfavourable
quarter, the sky was overcast and gloomy, the darkness
became intense, the rain began to pour in torrents, the
small vessel to pitch, and all of us became sick and (the
wind having increased to a severe storm) alarmed for our
safety. My father, who was the only person on board,
except the three men who navigated the yacht, that knew
anything of a ship, came below, to assure us there was no
danger ; but I could perceive by his countenance that he
was ill at ease , and, my heart sinking within me, I could
scarce restrain my tears, while I endeavoured to look com-
posed, lest I might add to his anxiety. He staid only a few
minutes below, and again went on deck, from whence I
could hear his beloved voice, above the roaring of the winds
and waves, giving his orders to the men. My companions
were in tears ; faint sobs and pious ejaculations had come
in place of song and music. The contrast was striking : our
gay dresses mocked our situation ; what had engrossed our
whole attention for days before, was now rumpled and
soiled without regret ; and, alarmed as I was, the moral
struck deep into my soul, as I poured out a prayer to the
Father of Mercies for his gracious interference to deliver us
from our perilous situation. Several miserable hours thus
passed over our heads, and my father came not again below,
for the storm was unabated. At length day began to dispel
the utter darkness of the night, yet no cheering ray shone
upon us ; for the sky was dark and dismal, and we caught
only fitful glances of it through the skylight of the cabin,
when the waves that were continually throwing their spray
over it subsided. Oh, how I longed to get to the top of the
hatchway, to get one look of my father before we perished !
— for I had given up all hope of escape, and became so much
resigned, that even the lamentations of my companions,
which were dying away from mere exhaustion, ceased to
affect me. Several times I made the attempt to reach the
deck ; but found it impossible for me to keep my footing ;
and, having been severely bruised by my endeavours, I lay
quiet and hopeless. At length the wind began to subside ;
and, in a short time, my father came to us, with the
joyful tidings that he hoped all danger was past. I sank

308

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

into his embrace, overpowered by my sensations ; and hope
once more enlightened the countenances of the party. My
father was so much fatigued by the exertions of the night, that
I requested him to lay himself down and take some rest ;
but he said he would wait until we made the land, which
was at no great distance. We ascertained that we had,
during the night, been driven past the Isle of Man, and
were now only a few leagues from the coast of Galloway.
Anxious to be away from the cabin, where we had endured
so much from mental anguish, we hastened to the deck.
It was now between eight and nine in the morning ; the sun
was bright, and shone upon the green hills of Galloway
and the sea around us, as if his face had never been overcast by
a storm. About ten o'clock we all landed at a beautiful
little village called Garlieston, which is situate at the
bottom of a small bay, a few miles from the county town of
Wigton. Here we were with difficulty put up, for there
was but one inn in the place ; but we were so happy to be
once more on the firm ground, that we were not over
fastidious about our accommodation. My father, who looked
pale and fatigued, threw off his wet dress, and retired to
rest himself for a few hours ; and it was agreed by all that
we should leave again on the following morning ; yet, so
much alarmed were the greater number of us, that, could
coaches of any kind have been obtained within forty miles,
we would not have ventured again upon the sea.

Toward evening my father joined the company of our
fellow- voyagers ; but he looked weak and fatigued, and did
not remain any time with them. Meanwhile, as the weather
had become favourable and the wind fair, it was agreed
that we should depart next morning. Anxious for my
parent, I retired with him; and to all my inquiries he
answered, he was only a little fatigued ; but these answers
did not satisfy me ; for, after I lay down to sleep, vague
undefined fears oppressed my mind ; and when a disturbed
slumber came over me, I was haunted by frightful dreams,
which threw me into a kind of monomania. I awoke, I saw
my father standing by my bedside — I was certain of it — I
spoke to him, but he did not answer. I attempted to
rise — I changed my position — he vanished from my sight,
and I shook with fear. That it was an illusion of my senses,
I have no doubt ; but the impression it made was terrible.
The first blushes of morning were just tinging the water in
the bay ; all was still as death ; the deep shadows of Eager-
ness and Crugleton gave force and grandeur to the land-
scape ; our yacht and two small sloops were just beginning
to float with the rising tide. I looked out, and endeavoured
to enjoy the lovely prospect that lay before me ; but the
vision I had seen oppressed my mind. I hastily dressed
myself, to go to my father's room ; but, fearful of disturbing
him at so early an hour, I sat down at my window and gave
way to a passion of tears. I felt ashamed of my weakness ;
for, at this time, I had no defined cause of grief; but I
dreaded future evil, and, in indulging in those fears, I felt I
was preparing myself for what I had to meet. My mind
became less oppressed — my heart beat lighter — I became
more composed, and offered up my morning sacrifice to my
Creator with a cheerful heart. When I entered my father's
room, I was shocked to see the change one night had made
on him. His face was flushed, and his eye heavy. I took
his hand in mine — it was hot as a live coal ; his pulse beat
as if it would have burst the veins ; he grasped my hand, as
1 stooped to kiss his forehead, and said —
' Mary, I am very ill — send for a surgeon.'
These were the only words he spoke in reason for several
days. When I returned to his room, after giving the necessary
orders, his mind was wandering — he was unconscious of all
around — and I, with a sorrowful heart, took farewell of my
companions in this unfortunate voyage. When I saw them
depart, I felt as if alone in the world — all around were
strangers ; but I had no leisure for selfish reflections

for my distressed parent engrossed all my thoughts. As 1
watched by his bed, I found that all his thoughts, in his
delirium, ran on the banks of the Esk, and my dear departed
mother. I was his Agnes. He would converse for hours,
holding my hand, while my tears flowed, to hear the scenes
recounted I had so much enjoyed in the company of my
sainted mother. Then he would observe my tears, in spite
of my endeavours at their concealment, and, ceasing to speak
for a few moments, would say, fretfully—

' Agnes, why do you weep ? I am not going to sea
again. Death shall only part us. Sing me a song, my

love — the song I first heard you sing nay, do not sing,

for my head aches terribly.'

Thus did days and nights pass, and the surgeon gave
me no hopes of his recovery. At length his reason returned
— the fever abated — and he gradually began to recover. As
soon as we could remove with safety, a postchaise was pro-i
cured from the nighest town, and we set off for Liverpool
by easy stages. His health was soon completely restored,
and he entered into business with renewed energy. But
misfortunes now began to come thick upon us ; for one of
those panics that so often occur in commerce caused the fail-
ure of a bank in which my father was a partner, whereby
more than the half of his wealth was at once swept away.
Although I did all I could to console him, this loss preyed
upon his spirits for several months. I knew not at the time
how deeply he was engaged in commerce ; but I knew that
the sum he had lost was a fortune in itself. Yet we were
rich ; and, had he not been engaged in an extensive specu-
lation, we might have been happy ; but that also failed, and
another merchant, who was joined in it along with him.
became bankrupt ; so that almost every thousand he could
command was swept away. Our delightful villa, on the
banks of the Mersey, was sold, our establishment broken
up, and we retired to a more humble abode. This change
I regretted not, further than as it affected my father, whose
spirits, for a time, were so completely sunk, that he would
sit in silence for hours, gazing upon vacancy ; and, when his
eyes met mine, as I looked in anxiety upon him, he would
burst into tears, dash his clenched hands upon his forehead,
and groan aloud. If I attempted to appear cheerful his
gloom increased, so that I knew not how to act. He never
left the house, no one called upon us, and we appeared to
be utterly forgot or shunned by all our former gay friends.
This I knew preyed much upon my father's mind ; but how
to remedy it I knew not ; for, whether they shunned us
through delicacy of feeling, or selfishness, my heart revolted
from the thought of waiting upon them to request them to
visit my disconsolate parent, and rescue him from his
anguish. In this my dilemma, I waited upon the clergy-
man under whose ministry we had lived since our arrival in
England. He received me with a warmth of kindness I
shall never forget, gave me hope and joy, accompanied me
home to my parent, and, most humanely, and as became a
Christian pastor, poured the balm of consolation on his
wounded spirit. Once more my beloved parent resumed
his wonted frame of mind, and he sighed only when he
spoke of my future prospects of life — ruined, he thought
for ever, by his imprudence. No longer the courted, flat-
tered, and invited Mary, I was scarcely recognised by those
who had been most assiduous in their attentions to me
Often a bitter pang and feeling came over me ; anger, shame,
and regret struggled in my breast ; the cold recognitions of
some, and the marked shunning of others, struck me to the
soul ; but pity for those who could thus wound the feelings
of the unfortunate, reclaimed me to a better frame of mind,
and, by frugal management and economy, I contrived to
struggle against adversity — an effjrt in which I was aided
by a servant whom we had brought from Scotland — a worthy
girl, who loved us for our own sakes, and would not have
left us had our poverty been abject.

TALES OF THE BORDEPS.

809

One afternoon I was seated at the piano-forte, playing
over a few favourite airs, to soothe my father's melancholy,
wlien the bell was rung by a stranger, whom I could hear
inquiring if Captain Monro was at home, and disengaged
We looked at each other in surprise ; for he had never been
called captain since his marriage with my mother, and there
were very few who knew he had ever been in the seafaring
profession. The girl answered the stranger's inquiry —

' There is no one of that name lives here,' said she ,
' but Mr Monro is at home, if you wish to see him.'

' I hope it is the same,' the stranger replied. ' Be so
kind as go to your master, and say that Billy Thomson
would esteem it a particular favour if he would see him for
a few minutes.'

The stranger was immediately admitted, when the mosl
graceful figure of a man I had ever seen entered the room
He stood, for a few moments, looking intently at my father,
who gazed as fixedly at him. A faint shade of recollection
stole over his face. The stranger first broke silence.

* No, I am not deceived,' said he ; ' it is my worthy
captain ; although much altered, I cannot be mistaken. Do
you not remember little Scottish Bill, whom you took,
when a destitute creature, and was a father to, in the Betsy ?
Excuse my boldness ; but I could not resist calling to see
and thank my noble captain.'

A glow of pleasure came over my father's countenance,
to which it had long been a stranger ; he shook Billy's hand
with a heartiness that brought a blush into his manly
countenance. He remained with us to supper, and I re-
joiced in his company. My father forgot his sorrows in the
society of Captain Thomson; for the destitute sailor boy of
the Betsy was now captain of a large vessel trading from
the portof London, and had onlyarrivedat Liverpooltwo days
before, with a cargo of cotton. Itwas byaccident he had heard
of our being in Liverpool ; and, having heard of the misfor-
tunes of my father, had resolved upon making an early call;
but, with a feeling that did him honour, he never spoke of
the causes of our grief, save when my father reverted to
them himself, and then the delicacy of his allusions gained
my esteem. The night passed on with a rapidity that aston-
ished us, who had for months been enslaved by melancholy
and chagrin. Every evening, during the time his vessel
remained at Liverpool, he was our guest. My father, in
his company, forgot his misfortunes, becoming, what he had
formerly been, full of energy ; and several projects were formed
by them to retrieve our lost estate. As for myself, I for-
got, in his company, all my sorrows. His attentions,
humble and sincere, acting on one who had been slighted
and shunned, produced in me a new feeling, which took
entire possession of my breast. I felt dull and unhappy if
he was half-an-hour later in calling than usual — my heart
fluttered in my breast when the door bell announced
a visiter — I could not think of the Clarendon's sailing and
his departure without tears. All this, I flattered myself,
arose from filial sympathy ; for what was my father to do
when Billy Thomson was gone ? What was Mary to do ?
That, I tried to make myself believe, was nothing. He had
never spoken of love, neither dared I think of it. No one
cared for the ruined in fortune, but seemed to avoid them ;
now I regretted the loss of means ; for I felt that, had
I been as wealthy as I was twelve months before, Captain
Thomson would have declared his sentiments for me.
Little did I at this time know my Billy's thoughts:
so humble were they, that he had been struggling in
vain against the love he had for his old captain's daughter,
nor dared to think of me otherwise than as a companion
far above his hopes. Ruined as our fortunes were, he had
the same esteem and respect for my father as when he
was his humble sea boy. The most melancholy and
pleasant day of my life was the evening before he sailed.
Well do I recollect it. He stayed with us until the even-

ing was far spent, and it appeared that something far
more heavy seemed to weigh upon his mind than the
thought of a sailor's farewell. Twenty times I had seen him
put his hand into his pocket, and then withdraw it, as if
irresolute and confused. As my eye met his, I was also
confused, and could not restrain my agitation. At length
he rose to depart — my father rose also ; I could not at this
moment have stood without support — my excitement was
terrible— they stood with their hands ready to join, per-
haps for the last time.

' Be not offended, my worthy captain, at my presumption,'
said our dear friend, at last ; < I would have done it sooner,
but, fearful of your anger, I have delayed it to the last.'

My ears tingled— I hid my face in my hands.

'You cannot,' replied my father, 'give me offence, my
noble fellow ; for your heart is in the right place. What
were you going to request, that I can oblige by bestowing?'

€ I thank you for the assurance you have given me,' re-
plied the other. ' It has eased my mind of a load that has
been on it for many days. Accept this' — (drawing from his
pocket a bundle of bank bills) — ' accept this, then, my dear
sir. It is a part only of my earnings, for all which I am
indebted to your generosity and paternal instruction. It
may be the means of once more placing you in affluence,
when you can repay me.'

The tears ran down the face of my parent — I sobbed
aloud.

' No, Billy, no,' said he. ' I never will, my noble fel-
low— my more than son. I do not require it ; and, if
I did, I know where to apply. God bless you ! — fare-you-
well ! — good night !'

And, overpowered by his feelings, he rushed from the
room and left us together. Neither of us could speak.
Captain Thomson stood overpowered by disappointment —
I by my feelings, and with a heart choked by gratitude
and admiration. At length he seated himself by my side
and took my trembling hand in his.

' Miss Monro,' he said, ' I fear I have offended you and
your father by my boldness ; but I do, from my heart,
assure you nothing on earth was farther from my inten-
tion.'

( Captain Thomson,' I replied, ' I as firmly believe you ;
and I can only thank you with my tears for your attentions
to my father. I hope,' (and I hesitated as I proceeded,)
' if we do not meet again, you will at least correspond with
us — I mean him — my father.'

( Were it not the hope of again seeing you and your
father,' replied he, ' I would be most unhappy ; for I have
never, until now, known what true happiness is. May I
be so bold as hope you will not refuse to accept from me
a small token of gratitude for the pleasure I have enjoyed
in the company of you and your father ?'

He paused, and took an elegant gold watch from his
pocket, and gave it me. I could not refuse the bauble ; for
everything that was his had a value in my eyes. I took
a locket from my neck and gave it him in return.

' Captain,' said I, ' we must make an exchange ; for I
owe you more for your kindness to my father than any
debt of gratitude you may owe him.'

He took my hand in his with a gentle pressure — it thrilled
to my heart — I knew not if I had returned it. He
aressed my hand to his lips — I did not withdraw it — the
;>lood mounted to my face, and my eyes sunk upon the
ground. He saw my emotion, and, fearful of having given
offence, he dropped my hand, and, begging pardon for his
iresumption, bade me adieu. As soon as he was gone, I
'elt far more lonely than I had ever done in my life. I
sat and wept — my hand still held the watch — I placed it
in my bosom, and felt as if it cooled it and soothed my
grief. Never until this moment of his departure had
dared to own to myself how much I loved him. All that

310

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had ever occurred since our first meeting, arose to my re-
collection. A thousand little incidents that I had over-
looked at the time, now appeared to my love -sick thoughts
convincing proofs that I was not indifferent to him. I at
length retired to rest, composed, if not happy ; for I had
almost persuaded myself that Billy loved me.

Next morning, when I awoke, I examined the gift, so
dear to me on the giver's account. It had an elegant neck-
chain and seals attached. On one was engraved, ' Forget-
me-not;' on another, two rose-buds engraved, and 'Severed,
we perish.' I dressed myself with a lighter heart than I
had ever done, and entered the breakfast room, where my
father was waiting for me — a thing he had not done before
for many a day. Our whole discourse was of Billy — a sub-
ject he never tired of dwelling upon, or I of listening to.
Our time began to pass more cheerfully. A few days after
Billy was gone, during which I had occupied myself in
making a keepsake paper for my watch, I took out a
piece of silk, to place that I had made in its stead ; and,
oh ! how my heart leaped for joy when under it I saw
engraved the following curious words ! —

' That place — dear offering — shall be yours,

"Which covers my affection's seat ;
And all thy minutes shall be hours,

Till on her breast I hear thee beat.

My father witnessed my joyful surprise, as I concluded
reading the words that filled my heart with peace and rap-
ture. He asked the cause. Blushing, I handed the watch
to him : he laid it down, and kissed my forehead.

' Mary, my love,' said he, ' I approve your choice ; Billy
is worthy of you, were we even far more wealthy than we
ever were. May you be happy and long blessed in each
other !'

I sunk upon his bosom, and wept for joy. Oh, that I
had died in that happy hour ! Then, I had a lover whom
I could esteem, and a father whom I loved and honoured.
Now, I am alone and desolate."

Here poor Mary hid her face in her handkerchief and
wept. After a short interval of silence, she put her hand
into her bosom, and, after some little difficulty, brought
out a small silken bag, in which were the watch and the two
seals, attached by a blue ribbon ; but the gold chain was
gone. It was a valuable watch.

" Why do you not wind it up, Mary ?" said my landlady.

" Madam," replied she, " I never have wound it up since
I received the sad intelligence that the ear of him who
hoped to hear it beat on my bosom, is now shut to all
earthly sounds."

She then proceeded—

" My father now began to look after his affairs with an
energy I thought he never would have been capable of again.
Gloom forsook his brow, and cheerfulness was once more
the inhabitant of our humble roof. I loved home better
now than I had ever done in the days of our prosperity ;
for it was now quiet and domestic. We were not con-
strained by formal attentions, either of false friends, flat-
terers, or the worshippers of wealth ; and the bondage
imposed by imperious fashion, more galling than could be
borne were it imposed by any throned tyrant, was happily
removed. It was about a month after the departure of
Billy, and we had not received any letter from him. I had
become anxious and fearful at this long delay — dinner-hour
was close at hand — my father, who had been out all day,
was not yet arrived — I was amusing myself, to pass the
time, making impressions with sealing-wax of Billy's seals.
Already had I consumed almost a stick of wax, when my
father arrived : joy was beaming on his face ; he, as was
his wont, kissed me, and hung over me with a fonder em-
brace than he had for some time done.

' Mary,' said lie, ' I have good news for yon. I hope my
child will yet be an object of cupidity -to mercenary lovers;

but none but Billy shall ever have the blessing of your
father — mind that, Mary.'

And he patted my cheek. Never, since the last illness
of my mother, had I seen him in such spirits. He had
that day received a letter from one of his agents in South
America, with the welcome intelligence, that, after a long
delay, and keeping the goods warehoused, he had been
enabled to dispose of what was not injured, at a price con-
siderably above the invoice ; so much so, that there would
be little or no loss in the transaction. The amount in
goods and specie had been sent by the same vessel which
brought the notice. He had also received a letter from
Captain Thomson, enclosing one for me ; and I was now in
full a partaker of my parent's happiness ; for, although I
rejoiced in his good fortune, it did not convey that thrilling
sensation to my mind which the sight of Billy's letter
effected like a spell. Whether, after my father had seen
the watch, he had written to Billy, approving our love, I know
not ; but the letter I now read, contained an ample declara-
tion, and requested an answer of hope, at least, before he
sailed from London for the West Indies. It was not in my
nature to play the coquette. I wrote him an answer, which
did not entirely meet my father's approval ; but I could not,
in my first letter, say more ; and, indeed, this had cost me
much care and labour. I wrote several drafts before I
could please myself; they were all either too bold for a
maiden, or there was some expression too cold and indif-
ferent; the sentiments that arose in my mind, I feared, he
would have thought forward ; and I ended in a kind of
medium, which neither pleased my father nor myself. We
were now far above the fear of want ; the goods and specie
realised above seven thousand pounds ; my father looked
forward to a handsome sum when the affairs of the bank
were finally wound up — and they were in rapid progress.
Though he never before had valued money, my parent
became again eager in commerce ; but, cautious as he had
become in his adventures, he sustained a second loss, which,
though to a comparatively small amount, completely dis-
gusted him. He became again taciturn and abstracted. In
vain I entreated him to make known to me the thoughts that
oppressed him ; he always evaded my endearments and
requests, until we received letters that the Clarendon had
arrived safe at London, and that Captain Thomson would
pay us a visit in a few days. We sat conversing about
the pleasure we should both enjoy in Captain Thomson's
company ; and my father took my hand —

' Mary,' said he, ' you have for some time been anxious to
know what I have been revolving in my mind. I am now
going to inform you. It will, I have no doubt, give you
pain ; but I am resolved, for it is for our mutual advantage,
and will give me pain as well as you. I am yet, compara-
tively, a young man, and feel ashamed to waste my energies
in idleness. Now that fortune has turned her back upon
me ashore, I have resolved to go again to sea. If Captain
Thomson will agree, we will purchase a vessel, and go to
the South Sea fishing, one voyage before your marriage.
My mind is made up. I cannot endure to think you should
be a bride with a less portion than I once intended you
should have ; and, having tried my luck in land transactions,
and found I have none, I will again try the sea.'

The tears started into my eyes as he spoke ; I felt a
chill pervade my frame ; and I could not utter a word. To
be dashed thus from the pinnacle of anticipated joy, to the
depths of disappointment, and so unexpectedly, was too much
for my frame, and I sank down in a state of insensibility.
When I was restored to consciousness, my father was bend-
ing over me, with anguish in his look, wringing his hands
and groaning.

'Wretched man, he cried, 'I have killed my child.
Mary, my love ! — O Mary ! awake to life, for your father's
sake, or he will go distracted !'

TALES OF THE BORDERS

311

For some inluutes I felt my brain quite bewildered ;
but the fearful truth too soon burst upon me, and a flood of
tears eased my bursting heart. I knew my father's firmness
of resolution ; and by this conduct I might embitter the
moments of his departure, and fill the days of his absence
with regret ; so, wich a voice scarcely audible, I bade him
good night ; but the struggle in my mind I could not
conceal, for my looks were full of unutterable wo. As
so m as 1 reached my bedroom, I sank upon my knees and
poured out my whole soul for aid and direction in this my
extremity. Gradually I became more composed ; and I had
been so weakened by the conflict in my mind, that, when I
retired to bed, I soon fell into a quiet sleep, in which 1
dreamed that I was in the same ship with Billy and my
father, sailing among islands covered with flowers and
verdure, amid the songs of innumerable birds of the gayest
plumage, while the breezes from the land breathed around
me the richest perfumes. My bosom heaved with gladness,
>or Billy enjoyed along with me the beauteous scene. We
itood, with his arm supporting me, upon the deck ; and still
away we glided through the tranquil sea, my father smiling
upon us as we leaned upon the bulwarks of the vessel ; and
everything beamed pleasure. I wished to land upon one of
those delightful islands ; but I was told that they were the
abode of savages, who never failed to kill and devour any
stranger who might land among them. These were the
islands of false hopes ; but I was told we should soon reach
the islands of rational enjoyment ; so we glided along, and
approached a number of other islands, where there seemed
nothing to captivate the senses. All was still and serene —
no gaudy bird fluttered among the branches of the trees —
the simple song of the lark, high in mid-air, rung around
— the gale that reached us from the shore had a bracing
effect, that roused all the energies of my breast, and I felt a
thrill of emotion quite different from that lethargic, sickly
pleasure I had felt in the former scene. Suddenly my
dream changed : the vessel had disappeared — neither my
father nor Billy were by my side — I was alone, weary and
faint, in the middle of a. trackless waste ; I could support
my sinking frame no further ; in despair I had laid myself
down at the foot of a rock to die, when my mother appeared
and guided my steps from the scene of desolation to our
beloved home on the banks of the Esk. I awoke with my
mind more composed than I could have hoped when I
retired to rest. After my morning's devotion, I joined my
father at the breakfast table. He looked anxiously in my
face.

' Mary,' he said, ' you have been weeping ; I could expect
no other, for the intimation I gave last night was to you as
sudden as unexpected, and the more severe as for a time
^t may deprive you of the company of both father and lover.
But you know, my love, a sailor's wife must lay her account
with the occasional long absences of her husband ? I give
you my word, if Billy is the least averse to my proposal,
shall not urge, or think the worse of him on that account ;
but go I will myself, and shall not depart with the heavier
heart, that I leave you in his keeping. I am at present
in treaty for a vessel adapted for the voyage, and only wait
her arrival to conclude the transaction.' By a strenuous
effort, I restrained my tears.

' Father,' said I, ' you are far more competent to judge
for yourself than I am; but do not, on my account, risk the
dangers of the sea. I have no wish to be rich ; already we
have more than enough for my ambition ; and Billy would
not prize me the more were I worth millions ; but, if you
think you would be happier at sea, I will not complain ;
your happiness is dearer to me than my own, and I will
n ot think so well of my Billy as I do, if he will not ac-
company you to shield you from harm.'

Here my assumed fortitude forsook me, and I sunk upon
his breast. The worst was over. By and by the idea

became more familiar and, before Billy's arrival, I could
converse upon it with composure. At length he arrived ;
our vows were plighted; and, arm in arm, we listened to the
accents of our mutual love ; but the idea of our parting so
soon threw a shade of sadness into our discourse ; and,
had he urged our marriage before his departure, I could not
have refused. My father, however, thought it better that
it should be deferred until their return, when it was re-
solved that both should quit the sea for ever. I could per •
ceive that Billy went solely upon my father's account, and
the esteem he had for him, rather than any predilection he
himself had for the voyage. He saw also that 1 wished
him to go ; for, although I never had said so to him, he
could read my approval in my melancholy smile. At length
the dreaded day came round — the day on which I bade
adieu to all I held dear on earth. Melancholy, and with a
feeling of utter loneliness, I returned home, to offer up my
prayers for their safety, and weep for their absence in
secret. What added to the forlornness of my situation was,
that Betsy Campbell, the girl I mentioned before that had
been in the family so long, even before the death of my
mother, had married a Scottish sailor, and gone back to
Scotland to reside. Here was no one to whom I could
unburden my mind. All the money both could command,
was embarked in the purchase and outfit of the vessel,
except three hundred pounds, that were left in a banker's
hands for my use during their absence. The time passed
heavily. I received their last letters, dated Rio Janeiro ; and
their voyage had been prosperous up to this time. The
last letter I ever received was dated about eighteen months
since. Time passed, and I felt so dull and cheerless in the
house, that I sold off the furniture, and deposited the money
in the same banker's where my cash was, and boarded my-
self with a widoAV lady, whose daughters were my com-
panions. About three months since, the banking house
failed in which my money was placed, and a rumour was
current in Liverpool, that the Endeavour had been lost in
a storm, and all on board had perished. I was now
nearly in a state of distraction. I was plunged in poverty
all the money I had in the world was ten sovereigns
The manners of my landlady, which had been most at-
tentive, bordering upon obsequiousness, were now com-
pletely changed — she became harsh and unfeeling — feared
I would become a burden upon her, and even hinted as
much. Overpowered by anguish as I was, I paid what
had run of my month's board, and left the house. I had
made up my mind to proceed to Scotland and find out
Betsy, who lived with her parents at Musselburgh ; and, to
defray the expense, and raise as much money as I could
I parted with all my trinkets and the chain of niy watch,
and embarked in the steamer for Glasgow. Our passage
was very stormy ; and I was so sick that, even after our
arrival in Glasgow, I was unable to look after my luggage.
When I inquired for it, after the bustle of landing was over,
it was nowhere to be found. Some one had carried off all I
had in the world, save a few shillings that I had in my purse.
I remained two days in Glasgow, during which the police
used every exertion to trace my lost property in vain. I
had scarce sufficient left to pay my passage to Edinburgh
by the canal. Broken-hearted and penniless, I had ar-
rived late in the evening of that dreadful night in which
you found me. During the day, I had sat weeping with
my face buried in my handkerchief, and cast many an
anxious glance upon my fellow-passengers; but there was
not one in the boat to whom I could find courage enough
to appeal for aid. The weather was so cold and boisterous^
that none were travelling that could avoid it. All that
were present were either rude and noisy, or appeared steeped
in poverty equal to my own. I was too weak and spent to
proceed to Musselburgh at the late hour of our arrival-
I had not tasted food that day. I attempted to walk the

312

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

street, inclement as it was; for where could a penniless!
wretch find a shelter ? Even its streets were denied me ;
for I was ordered off them, in a voice that made me tremble,
by more than one of the police who witnessed my linger-
ing and languid steps. To avoid their rudeness, I had
retired into the shade of the stair-foot where you found
me, as I thought, to die; and, were it not for the hope that
still clings to my bosom, that the report of the loss of
the Endeavour is false, I care not how soon I may follow
my mother. You may think me foolish ; but the wretched
will cling to trifles. My mother, in my dream, rescued
me from the wilderness in which I had sunk."

Now that I was possessed of the history of her I had
so essentially obliged, my mind was relieved from a load of
concern I had felt upon her account. My income is but
limited, and I have, therefore, but scanty means of doing
the good with it I would wish ; but, after thanking her for
the interest we had felt in the narrative of her sufferings,
I cheered the mourner by the assurance, that I would
exert myself in arranging her affairs, and procuring, it
possible, authentic information regarding the Endeavour.
Once more I restored hope to her breast. She wished to
proceed to Musselburgh, to live with Betsy ; but, at my re-
quest, she agreed to remain where she was for a time, until
I had either succeeded in my inquiries or failed. If it was
proved that the Endeavour was lost, she, as heir to her
father, was entitled to the insurance; and, in either case, she
was rich.

Next morning I wrote off to a friend in Liverpool,
begging him to make the necessary inquiries regarding
the Endeavour, and the probable composition the banking
house would pay. I also wrote to the Glasgow police,
desiring them to offer a reward, and advertise the trunk
which Miss Monro had lost from the Liverpool steamer.
In course of post, I received the agreeable intelligence, that
the trunk lay in the office, having been taken from the
steam-boat by a gentleman of the same name, who was
going to the Highlands, and did not perceive his mistake
until he had reached home, when he had returned it with a
letter of apology. I called upon Mary with the welcome
intelligence. She wept for joy at its recovery, more for the
papers it contained and the good omen it brought, than
any value she set upon it individually, much as that value
was to her in her present circumstances. It was several
days past due before I received an answer to my Liverpool
letter. It also was most favourable. The dividend the
bank would pay was so trifling that it was scarce worthy
of inquiry ; but there were authentic letters in town, that the
Endeavour of Liverpool was spoke with on the coast of
Chili, all well and full fished, and was looked for in a few
days. A monarch might have envied me the receipt of
this letter. I hurried to Mary to break the joyful intelli-
gence, and never shall I forget the look of pleasure she gave
me. When I entered the house, she was seated on a couch,
in a kind of dreamy cogitation ; but, having been for some
days in the habit of watching my eyes, to try if she could
catch any sign of good intelligence, she started up as I
entered, from the mere impulse of that sympathy which,
like the electric fluid, passes unseen, and is only traced in
its effects. Though the usual freck of a bearer of good
news was, in spite of an effort to throw off all false colours,
busy with my face and eyes, she read my thoughts, and,
rushing forward, fell upon my neck.

" It is — it is," she exclaimed — " you cannot conceal it-
it is good intelligence you have to communicate to me.
"Would you, if you had it to bestow, withhold life from the
dying !"

I said nothing, but, lifting up her head with my left
hand, shewed her the letter I held secretly in my right.
She seized the letter, and was struggling with a nervous
tremor that prevented her opening i*

" The Endeavour is safe, and a full ship, and all is well."
I cried.

She fell down senseless on the floor, with the letter grasped
firmly in her hand. Returning consciousness came like the
soft beams of the sun 011 the eyes of one who has been con-
fined in a dungeon for many years, bringing with it the
stores of a happy memory, and the bright visions of a preg-
nant hope. She turned her eyes on me, and, after looking
for some time, burst into a loud hysterical sound of mixed
laughter and sobbing, and then became dissolved in tears,
through which she looked her silent gratitude to heaven. I
have lived long in the world ; but I never felt the full extent
of pure earthly bliss till that moment. I know of no feel-
ing that approaches that inexpressible glow of charity,
crowned with success, and requited by the tear-filled eye
of gratitude,- innocence, and virtue. Its intensity and
purity are both of heaven ; no one who has felt it can
remain in the bondage of sin ; yet how many are there,
whom sin has unfitted for the reception of the bless-
ing ? Oh, how I envied Billy the happiness in store for
him !

After being a little recovered, she wrote a letter to
her father and one for Billy, which I enclosed in a packet
for my friend, to be delivered as soon as the Endeavour
reached the port. In about three weeks after, as I sat at
tea with Mary, a chaise and four drove up to the door.
Mary started to her feet, and immediately sunk into my
arms as pale as death. At the same moment, her father
and lover rushed into the room. They looked angry and
surprised, and snatched her from my arms. I found I was
now but an intruder, and, taking my hat, bade them good
night. Early next morning, Billy called upon me with a
thousand apologies, which were not required. I break-
fasted with the party in one of the principal hotels of the
city. In the forenoon, my landlady was more than happy.
The grateful Mary had overrated her kindness to her father
and Billy. When I called at one for my lunch, as usual,
she was out with the bride purchasing dresses for the wed-
ding. At dinner she was at the table with us. Mary's
father and Billy insisted that, although now well stricken in
years, she should be bride's maid to Mary, and I best man
to Billy. I had as little inclination to refuse as my land-
lady, and was nearly as well pleased ; for, next to being
happy ourselves, is the pleasure of making others happy
around us. Captain Monro told me, after dinner, that he
was now resolved to live and die on the banks of the Esk,
that his ashes might mingle with those of his departed
Agnes. On the following day, a happier group never left
Edinburgh, than reached the banks of the Esk that day, in
search of a residence. We found the old abode of Mary—
" To Let or Sell," in large characters over the gate. It was
at once purchased, and taken possession of as soon as fur-
nished. During this delay, the captain, with Billy and his
young wife, were on their marriage jaunt. I was for several
days completely occupied with painters and cabinet-makers,
and now all has settled down into the quiet of domestic
life.

I am still a welcome guest, and am much importuned to
take up my abode entirely with these friends ; but I cannot
think of change. Save in Edinburgh, I would be in a
desert ; but there is one room, the key of which I gave
Mary to keep for me, where, for one night in the week, at
least, the old bachelor may be found.

WILSON'S

, arvafctttonavg, anti

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL.

IN the autumn of 1759, the Bay of Udoll, an arm of the sea
which intersects the southern shore of the Frith of Crom-
arty, was occupied by two large salmon wears, the property
of one Allan Thomson, a native of the province of Moray,
who had settled in this part of the country a few months
before. He was a thin, athletic, raw-boned man, of about
five feet ten, well-nigh in his thirtieth year, but apparently
younger ; erect and clean-limbed, with a set of handsome
features, bright intelligent eyes, and a profusion of dark
brown hair, curling around an ample expanse of forehead.
For the first twenty years of his life, he had lived about a farm-
house, tending cattle when a boy, and guiding the plough
when he had grown up ; he then travelled into England,
where he wrought about seven years as a common labourer.
A novelist would scarcely make choice of such a person
for the hero of a tale ; but men are to be estimated rather
by the size and colour of their minds, than the complexion
of their circumstances; and this ploughman and labourer of
the north was by no means a very common man. For the
tatter half of his life, he had pursued, in all his undertak-
ings, one main design. He saw his brother rustics tied
down by circumstance — that destiny of vulgar minds — to
a youth "of toil and dependence, and an old age of destitu-
tion and wretchedness ; and, with a force of character
which, had he been placed at his outset on what may be
cermed the table -land of fortune, would have raised him to
aer higher pinnacles, he persisted in adding shilling to
shilling and pound to pound, not in the sordid spirit of the
miser, but in the hope that his little hoard might yet serve
him as a kind of stepping-stone, in rising to a more com-
fortable place in society. Nor were his desires fixed very
high ; for, convinced that independence and the happiness
which springs from situation in life lie within the reach of
the frugal farmer of sixty or eighty acres, he moulded his
ambition on the conviction ; and scarcely looked beyond
the period at which he anticipated his savings would enable
him to take his place among the humbler tenantry of the
country.

Our firths and estuaries, at this period, abounded with
salmon — one of the earliest exports of the kingdom ; but,
from the low state into which commerce had sunk in the
northern districts, and the irregularity of the communica-
tion kept up between them and the sister kingdom, by far
the greater part caught on our shores were consumed by
the inhabitants. And so little were they deemed a luxury,
that it was by no means uncommon, it is said, for servants
to stipulate with their masters that they should not have
to diet on salmon oftener than thrice a-week. Thomson,
however, had seen quite enough, when in England, to con-
vince him, that, meanly as they were esteemed by his
countryfolks, they might be rendered the staple of a profit-
able trade ; and, removing to the vicinity of Cromarty, for
the facilities it afforded in trading to the capital, he launched
boldly into the speculation. He erected his two wears
with his own hands ; built himself a cottage of sods on the
gorge of a little ravine, sprinkled over with bushes of alder
and hazel ; entered into correspondence with a London
144. VOL. III.

i merchant, whom he engaged as his agent ; and began to
export his fish by two large sloops, which plied, at this
period, between the neighbouring port and the capital. His
fishings were abundant, and his agent an honest one ; and
he soon began to realize the sums he had expended in
establishing himself in the trade.

Could any one anticipate that a story of fondly-cherished,
but hapless attachment — of one heart blighted for ever, and
another fatally broken — was to follow such an introduc-
tion ?

The first season of Thomson's speculation had come to a
close ; winter set in ; and, with scarcely a single acquaint-
ance among the people in the neighbourhood, and little to
employ him, he had to draw for amusement on his own re-
sources alone. He had formed, when a boy, a taste for
reading ; and might now be found, in the long evenings,
hanging over a book, beside the fire ; by day, he went saunt-
ering among the fields, calculating on the advantages of
every agricultural improvement ; or attended the fairs and
trysts of the country, to speculate on the profits of the
drover and cattle-feeder, and make himself acquainted with
all the little mysteries of bargain-making.

There holds, early in November, a famous cattle market
in the ancient barony of Ferntosh ; and Thomson had set out
to attend it. The morning was clear and frosty, and he felt
buoyant of heart and limb, as, passing westwards along the
shore, he saw the huge Ben-Wevis towering darker and
more loftily over the Frith as he advanced ; or turned aside,
from time to time, to explore some ancient burying-ground
or Danish encampment. There is not a tract of country of
equal extent in the three kingdoms, where antiquities of
this class lie thicker than in that northern strip of the
parish of Resolis which bounds on the Cromarty Frith.
The old castle of Craig House, a venerable, time-shattered
building, detained him, amid its broken arches, for hours ;
and he was only reminded of the ultimate object of his
journey, when, on surveying the moor from the upper bar-
tizan, he saw that the groups of men and cattle which,
since morning, hr.d been mottling in succession the track
leading to the fair, were all gone out of sight ; and that, far
as the eye could reach, not a human figure was to be seen.
The whole population of the country seemed to have gone
to the fair. He quitted the ruins, and, after walking smartly
over the heathy ridge to the west, and through the long
birch-wood of Kinbeakie, he reached about mid-day the
little straggling village at which the market holds.

Thomson had never before attended a thoroughly High-
land market ; and the scene now presented was wholly
new to him. The area it occupied was an irregular open-
ing in the middie of the village, broken by ruts, and dung-
hills, and heaps of stone. In front of the little turf-houses
on either side, there was a row of booths, constructed mostly
of poles and blankets, in which much whisky, and a few
of the simpler articles of foreign merchandise, were sold.
In the middle of the open space, there were carts and
benches, laden with the rude manufactures of the country —
Highland brogues and blankets; bowls and platters of beech ;
a species of horse and cattle harness, formed of the twisted
twigs of birch ; bundles of split fir, for lath and torches ; and
hair tackle and nets, for fishermen. Nearly seven thousand

814

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

persons, male and female, thronged the area, bustling and
busy, and in continual motion, like the tides and eddies of
two rivers at their confluence. There were countrywomen,
with their shaggy little horses, laden with cheese and
butter; Highlanders from the far hills, with droves of
sheep and cattle ; shoemakers and weavers, from the neigh-
bouring villages, with bales of webs and wallets of shoes ;
farmers and fishermen, engaged as it chanced in buying or
selling ; bevies of bonny lasses, attired in their gayest ;
ploughmen and mechanics ; drovers, butchers, and herd-
boys. Whisky flowed abundantly, whether bargain-makers
bought or sold, or friends met or parted ; and, as the day
wore later, the confusion and bustle of the crowd increased.
A Highland tryst, even in the present age, rarely passes
without witnessing a fray ; and the Highlanders, seventy
years ago, were of more combative dispositions than they
are now ; but Thomson, who had neither friend nor enemy
among the thousands around him, neither quarreled himself,
nor interfered in the quarrels of others. He merely stood
and looked on, as a European would among the frays of
one of the great fairs of Bagdad or Astracan.

He was passing through the crowd, towards evening, in
front of one of the dingier cottages, when a sudden burst of
oaths and exclamations rose from within, and the inmates
came pouring out pell-mell at the door, to throttle and
pummel one another, in inextricable confusion. A grey-
headed old man, of great apparent strength, who seemed by
far the most formidable of the combatants, was engaged in
desperate battle with two young fellows from the remote
Highlands, while all the others were matched man to
man. Thomson, whose residence in England had taught
him very different notions, of fair play and the ring, was
on the eve of forgetting his caution and interfering ; but
the interference proved unnecessary. Ere he had stepped
up to the combatants, the old man, with a vigour little
lessened by age, had shaken off both his opponents ; and,
though they stood glaring at him like tiger cats, neither of
them seemed in the least inclined to renew the attack.

" Twa mean, pitiful kerns," exclaimed the old man, " to
tak odds against ane auld enough to be their faither ! an'
that too after burning my loof AVI' the het aim ! But I hae
noited their twa heads thegither ! Sic a trick ! — to bid me
stir up the fire, after they had heated the wrang end o' the
poker ! Deil but I hae a guid mind to gie them baith mair
o't yet !"

Ere he could make good his threat, however, his daughter,
a delicate-looking girl of nineteen, came rushing up to him
through the crowd. " Father !" she exclaimed, " dearest
father ! let us away. For my sake, if not your own, let
these wild men alone ; they always carry knives ; and,
besides, you will bring all of their clan upon you that are
at the tryst, and you will be murdered."

" No muckle danger frae that, Lillias," said the old man.
" I hae little fear frae ony ane o' them ; an', if they come by
twasome, I hae my friends here too. The ill deedy
wratches, to blister a' my loof wi' the poker ! But come
awa, lassie ; your advice is, I daresay, best, after a'."

The old man quitted the place with his daughter ; and,
for the time, Thomson saw no more of him. As the night
approached, the Highlanders became more noisy and turbu-
lent; they drank, and disputed, and drove their very
bargains at the dirk's point ; and, as the salmon-fisher passed
through the village for the last time, he could see the
waving of bludgeons, and hear the formidable war-cry of
one of the clans, with the equally formidable, " Hilloa !
help for Cromarty !" echoing on every side of him. He
kept coolly on his way, however, without waiting the
result ; and, while yet several miles from the shores oi
Udoll, daylight had departed, and the moon at full had
risen, red and huge in the frosty atmosphere, over the bleak
hill of Nigg

He had reached the burn of Newhall — a small stream,
which, after winding for several miles between its double
row of alders, and its thickets of gorse and hazel, falls into
the upper part of the Bay — and was cautiously picking his
way, by the light of the moon, along a narrow pathway
which winds among the bushes. There are few places in
the country of worse repute among believers in the super-
natural than the burn of Newhall ; and its character, seventy
years ago, was even Averse than it is at present. Witch
meetings without number have been held on its banks, and
dead lights have been seen hovering over its deeper pools.
Sportsmen have charged their fowling-pieces with silver
when crossing it in the night-time ; and I remember an old
man who never approached it after dark without fixing a
bayonet on the head of his staff. Thomson, however, was
but little influenced by the beliefs of the period ; and he was
passing under the shadow of the alders, with more of this
world than of the other in his thoughts, when the silence
was suddenly broken by a burst of threats and exclama-
tions, as if several men had fallen a-fighting, scarcely fifty
yards away, without any preliminary quarrel ; and, with
the gruffer noises, there mingled the shrieks and entreaties
of a female. Thomson grasped his stick and sprang forward.
He reached an opening among the bushes, and saw iu the
imperfect light the old robust Lowlander of the previous fray
attacked by two men armed with bludgeons, and defending
himself manfully with his staff. The old man's daughter,
who had clung round the knees of one of the ruffians,
was already thrown to the ground and trampled under
foot. An exclamation of wrath and horror burst from the
high-spirited fisherman, as, rushing upon the fellow like a
tiger from its jungle, he caught the stroke aimed at him on
his stick, and with a sidelong blow on the temple, felled
him to the ground. At the instant he fell, a gigantic
Highlander leaped from among the bushes, and, raising his
huge arm, discharged a tremendous blow at the head of the
fisherman, who, though taken unawares and at a disad-
vantage, succeeded, notwithstanding, in transferring it to his
left shoulder, where it fell broken and weak. A desperate,
but brief combat, ensued. The ferocity and ponderous
strength of the Celt, found their more than match in the
cool, vigilant skill, and leopard-like agility of the Lowland
Scot ; for the latter, after discharging a storm of blows
on the head, face, and shoulders of the giant, until he stag-
gered, at length struck his bludgeon out of his hand, and
prostrated his, whole huge length, by dashing his stick end-
long against his breast. At nearly the same moment the
burly old farmer, who had grappled with his antagonist, had
succeeded in flinging him, stunned and senseless, against the
gnarled root of an alder ; and the three ruffians — for the
first had not yet recovered — lay stretched on the grass. Ere
they could secure them, however, a shrill whistle was hear^
echoing from among the alders, scarcely a hundred yards
away. "We had better get home," said Thomson to the
old man, " ere these fellows are reinforced by their brother
ruffians in the wood." And, supporting the maiden with
his one hand, and grasping his stick with the other, he
plunged among the bushes in the direction of the path, and,
gaining it, passed onward, lightly and hurriedly, with his
charge ; the old man followed more heavily behind ; and, in
somewhat less than an hour after, they were all seated
beside the hearth of the latter, in the farm-house of Meikle
Farness.

It is now more than forty years since the last stone of
the very foundation has disappeared ; but the little grassy
eminence on which the house stood, may still be seen
There is a deep-wooded ravine behind, which, after wind-
ing through the table-land of the parish, like a huge crooked
furrow — the bed evidently of some antediluvian stream —
opens far below to the sea ; an undulating tract of field and
1 moor — with, here and there, a thicket of bushes, and, here

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

315

and there, a heap of stone — spreads in front. When I last
looked on the scene, 'twas in the evening of a pleasant day
in June. One half the eminence was bathed in the red
light of the setting sun — the other lay brown and dark in
tlie shadow. A flock of sheep were scattered over the
sunny side ; the herd-boy sat on the top, solacing his leisure
with a music famous in the pastoral history of Scotland,
but now well-nigh exploded — that of the stock and horn ;
and the air seemed filled with its echoes. I stood picturing
to myself the appearance of the place, ere all the inmates of
this evening, young and old, had gone to the churchyard,
and left no successors behind them ; and, as I sighed over
the vanity of human hopes, I could almost fancy I saw an
apparition of the cottage rising on the knoll. I could see
the dark turf walls ; the little square" windows, barred be-
low and glazed above ; the straw roof, embossed with moss
and stone-crop ; and, high over headj the row of venerable
elms, with their gnarled trunks and twisted branches that
rose out of the garden wall. Fancy gives an interest to all
her pictures — yes, even when the subject is but an humble
cottage ; and when we think of human enjoyment — of the
pride of strength and the light of beauty — in connection with
a few mouldering and nameless bones hidden deep from the
Eun, there is a sad poetry in the contrast which rarely fails
to affect the heart. It is now two thousand years since
Horace sung of the security of the lowly, and the unfluctu-
ating nature of their enjoyments ; and every year of the two
thousand has been adding proof to proof that the poet,
when he chose his theme, must have thrown aside his phi-
iosophy. But the inmates of the farm-house thought little
this evening of coming misfortune — nor would it have been
well if they had ; their sorrow was neither heightened nor
hastened by their joy.

Old William Stewart, the farmer, was one of a class well-
nigh worn out in the southern Lowlands, even at this period ;
but which still comprised in the northern districts no in-
considerable portion of the people ; and which must always
obtain in countries only partially civilized and little amen-
able to the laws. Man is a fighting animal from very
instinct ; and his second nature, custom, mightily improves
the propensity. A person naturally courageous, who has
defended himself successfully in half-a-dozen different frays,
will, very probably, begin the seventh himself; and there
are few who have fought often and well for safety and the
right, who have not at length learned to love fighting for
its own sake. The old farmer had been a man of war from
his youth. He had fought at fairs, and trysts, and wed-
dings, and funerals ; and, without one ill-natured or malig-
nant element in his composition, had broken more heads
than any two men in the country-side. His late quarrel
at the tryst, and the much more serious affair among the
bushes, had arisen out of this disposition ; for, though well-
fligh in his sixtieth year, he was still as warlike in his
habits as ever. Thomson sat fronting him beside the fire,
admiring his muscular frame, huge limbs, and immense
structure of bone. Age had grizzled his hair and furrowed
his cheeks and forehead ; but all the great strength, and
well-nigh all the activity of his youth, it had left him still.
His wife, a sharp-featured, little woman, seemed little in-
terested in either the details of his adventure or his guest,
whom he described as the " brave, hardy chield, wha had
beaten twasome at the cudgel — the vera littlest o' them
as big as himsel."

" Och, guidman," was her concluding remark, " ye aye
stick to the auld trade, bad though it be ; an' I'm feared
that, or je mend, ye maun be aulder yet. I'm sure ye
ne'er made your ain money o't."

" Nane o' yer nonsense," rejoined the farmer— " bring
butt the bottle an' your best cheese."

" The guidwife an' I dinna aye agree," continued the
old man, turning to Thomson. " She's baith near-gaun an'

new-fangled ; an' I like aye to hae routh o' a things, an' to
live just as my faithers did afore me. Why sould I bother
my head wi' Improvement 9. as they ca' them? The country's
gane clean gite wi' pride, Thomson ? Naething less sairs
folk noo, forsooth, than carts wi' wheels to them ; an' it's
no' a fortnight syne sin' little Sandy Martin, the trifling cat,
jeered me for yoking my ovvsen to the plough by the tail.
What ither did they get tails for ?"

1 homson had not sufficiently studied the grand argument
of design in this special instance, to hazard a reply.

" The times hae gane clean oot o' joint," continued the
old man. << The law has come a' the length o' Cromarty
noo ; an' for breaking the head o' an impudent fallow ane
runs the risk o' being sent aff to the plantations. Faith, I
wish oor Parliamenters had mair sense. What do they
ken aboot us or oor country ? Diel haet difference do thev
mak at ween the shire o' Cromarty an' the shire o' Lunnon ';
just as if we could be as quiet beside the red-wud
Hielanmen here, as they can be beside the Queen. Na, na —
naething like a guid cudgel ; — little wad their law hae
dune for me at the burn o' Newhall the nicht."

Thomson found the character of the old man quite a study
in its way ; and that of his wife — a very different, and, in the
main, inferior sort of person, for she was mean-spirited and
a niggard — quite a study too. But by far the most interesting
inmate of the cottage was the old man's daughter — the child
of a former marriage. She was a pale, delicate, blue-eyed
girl, who, without possessing much positive beauty of feature,
had that expression of mingled thought and tenderness which
attracts more powerfully than beauty itself. She spoke but
little — that little, however, was expressive of gratitude and
kindness to the deliverer of her father — sentiments which,
in the breast of a girl so gentle, so timid, so disposed to
shrink from the roughnesses of active courage, and yet so
conscious of her need of a protector, must have mingled
with a feeling of admiration at finding, in the powerful
champion of the recent fray, a modest, sensible, young man,
of manners nearly as quiet and unobtrusive as her own
She dreamed that night of Thomson, and her first thought,
as she awakened next morning, was whether, as her father
had urged, he was to be a frequent visiter at Meikle Far-
ness. But an entire week passed away, and she saw no
more of him.

He was sitting one evening in his cottage, poring over a
book — a huge fire of brushwood was blazing against the
earthen wall, filling the upper part of the single rude cham-
ber of which the cottage consisted with a dense cloud of
smoke, and glancing brightly on the few rude implements
which occupied the lower — when the door suddenly opened,
and the farmer of Meikle Farness entered, accompanied by
his daughter.

"Ha! Allan, man," he said, extending his large hand
and grasping that of the fisherman ; " if you winna come an'
see us, we maun just come an' see you. Lillias an' mysel
were afraid the guidwife had frichtened you awa — for she's
a near-gaun sort o' body, an' maybe no owre kind spoken ;
but ye maun just come an' see us whiles, an' no mind
her. Except at counting-time, I never mind her mysel."
Thomson accommodated his visiters with seats. " Yer life
maun be a gay lonely ane here, in this eerie bit o' a glen,"
remarked the old man, after they had conversed for some
time on indifferent subjects ; " but I see ye dinna want
company a'thegither, such as it is" — his eye glancing as he
spoke over a set of deal shelves, occupied by some sixty or
seventy volumes. " Lillias there has a liking for that kind
o' company too, an' spends some days mair o' her time amang
her books than the guidwife or mysel would wish."

Lillias blushed at the charge, and hung down her nead ;
it gave, however, a new turn to the conversation; and
Thomson was gratified to find that the quiet, gentle girl,
who seemed so much interested in him, and whose gratitude

316

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

to him, expressed in a language less equivocal than any
spoken one, he felt to be so delicious a compliment, possessed
a cultivated mind and a superior understanding. She had
lived, under the roof of her father, in a little paradise of
thoughts and imaginations, the spontaneous growth of her
own mind ; and, as she grew up to womanhood, she had re-
course to the companionship of books — for in books only
could she find thoughts and imaginations of a kindred
character,

It is rarely that the female mind educates itself. The
genius of the sex is rather fine than robust ; it partakes
rather of the delicacy of the myrtle than the strength of
the oak ; and care and culture seem essential to its full
developement. Who ever heard of a female Burns or Bloom-
field ? And yet there have been instances, though rare, of
women working their way from the lower levels of intellect
to well-nigh the highest — not wholly unassisted, 'tis true —
the age must be a cultivated one. and there must be oppor-
tunities of observation ; but, if not wholly unassisted, with
helps so slender, that the second order of masculine minds
would find them wholly inefficient. There is a quickness of
perception and facility of adaptation in the better class of
female minds — an ability of catching the tone of whatever
is good from the sounding of a single note, if I may so
express myself, which we almost never meet with in the
mind of man. Lillias was a favourable specimen of the
better and more intellectual order of women ; but she was
yet very young, and the process of self-cultivation carrying
on in her mind was still incomplete. And Thomson found
that the charm of her society arose scarcely more from her
partial knowledge than from her partial ignorance. The
following night saw him seated by her side in the farm-
house of Meikle Farness ; and scarcely a week passed
during the winter in which he did not spend at least one
evening in her company.

Who is it that has not experienced the charm of female
conversation — that poetry of feeling which developes all of
tenderness and all of imagination that lies hidden in our
nature ? When folloAving the ordinary concerns of life, or
engaged in its more active businesses, many of the better
faculties of our minds seem overlaid ; there is little of feeling
and nothing of fancy ; and those sympathies which should
bind us to the good and fair of nature, lie repressed and
inactive. But in the society of an intelligent and virtuous
female there is a charm that removes the pressure. Through
the force of sympathy, we throw our intellects for the time
into the female mould ; our tastes assimilate to the tastes of
our companion ; our feelings keep pace with hers ; our sensi-
bilities become nicer, and our imaginations more expansive ;
and, though the powers of our mind may not much excel,
in kind or degree, those of the great bulk of mankind, we
are sensible that, for the time, we experience some of the
feelings of genius. How many common men have not female
society and the fervour of youthful passion sublimed into
poets ! I am convinced the Greeks displayed as much sound
philosophy as good taste in representing their muses as
beautiful women.

Thomson had formerly been but an admirer ot the poets —
he now became a poet ; and, had his fate been a kindlier one,
he might perhaps have attained a middle place among at
least the minor professors of the incommunicable art. He
was walking with Lillias one evening through the wooded
ravine. It was early in April, and the day had combined
the loveliest smiles of spring with the fiercer blasts of
winter. There was snow in the hollows ; but, where the
sweeping sides of the dell reclined to the south, the violet
and the primrose were opening to the sun. The drops of a
recent shower were still hanging on the half- expanded buds,
and the streamlet was yet red and turbid ; but the sun, nigh
at his setting, was streaming in golden glory along the field,
and a lark was caroling high in the air, as if its day were

but begun, Lillias, pointed to the bird, diminished almost
to a speck, but relieved by the red light against a minute
cloudlet.

" Happy little creature !" she exclaimed — " does it not
seem rather a thing of heaven than of earth ? Does not
its song frae the cloud mind you of the hymn heard by the
shepherds ! The blast is but just owre, an' a few minutes
syne it lay cowering and chittering in its nest j but its sor-
rows are a' gane, an' its heart rejoices in the bonny blink,
without ae thought o' the storm that has passed, or the night
that comes on. Were you a poet, Allan, like any o' your
two namesakes — he o' " The Seasons," or he o' " The Gentle
Shepherd" — I would ask you for a song on that bonnj
burdie." Next time the friends met, Thomson produced
the following verses.

TO THE LARK.

Sweet minstrel of the April cloud !

Dweller the flowers among !
Would that my heart were formed like thine,

And tun'd like thine my song !
Not to the earth, like earth's low gifts

Thy soothing strain is given ;
It comes a voice from middle sky,

A solace fereath'd from heaven.

Thine is the morn ; and when the sun

Sinks peaceful in the west,
The mild light of departing day

Purples thy happy breast.
And, ah ! though all beneath that sun

Dire pains and sorrows dwell,
Rarely they visit, short they stay,

Where thou hast built thy cell.

When wild winds rave, and snows descend,

And dark clouds gather fast,
And on the surf-encircled shore

The seaman's bark is cast —
Long human grief survives the storm,

But thou, thrice happy bird !
No sooner has it passed away,

Than, lo ! thy voice is heard.

When ill is present, grief is thine ;

It tiics, and thou art free ;
But, ah ! can aught achieve for man

What nature does for thee !
Man grieves amid the bursting storm ;

AVhen smiles, the calm he grieves ;
Nor cease his woes, nor sinks his plaint,

Till dust his dust receives.

As the latter month of spring came on, the fisherman
again betook himself to his wears, and nearly a fortnight
passed in which he saw none of the inmates of the farm-
house. Nothing is so efficient as absence, whether self-im-
posed or the result of circumstances, in convincing a lover
that he is truly such, and in teaching him how to estimate
the strength of his attachment. Thomson had sat, night
after night, beside Lillias Stewart, delighted with the deli
cacy of her taste and the originality and beauty of her
ideas — delighted, too, to watch the still partially developed
faculties of her mind, shooting forth and expanding into
bud and blossom under the fostering influence of his own
more matured powers. But the pleasure which arises from
the interchange of idea and the contemplation of mental
beauty, or the interest which every thinking mind must
feel in marking the aspirations of a superior intellect towards
its proper destiny, is not love ; and it was only now that
Thomson ascertained the true scope and nature of his feel-
ings.

" She is aheady my friend," thought he ; " if my schemes
prosper, I shall be in a few years what her father is now ;
and may then ask her whether she will not be more. Till
then, however, she shall be my friend, and my friend only ;
I find I love her too well to make her the wife of either
a poor, unsettled speculator, or still poorer labourer."

He renewed his visits to the farm-house, and saw, with

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

317

a discernment quickened by his feelings, that his mistress
had made a discovery with regard to her own affections
somewhat similar to his, and at a somewhat earlier period.
She herself could have, perhaps, fixed the date of it by
referring to that of their acquaintance. He imparted to
her his scheme, and the uncertainties which attended it,
with his determination, were he unsuccessful in his designs,
to do battle with the evils of penury and dependence
without a companion ; and, though she felt that she
could deem it a happiness to make common cause with
him even in such a contest, she knew how to appreciate his
motives, and loved him all the more for them. Never,
perhaps, in the whole history of the passion, were there two
lovers happier in their hopes and each other. But there was
a cloud gathering over them.

Thomson had never been an especial favourite with the
stepmother of Lillias. She had formed plans of her own
for the settlement of her daughter, with which the attentions
of the salmon-fisher threatened materially to interfere.
And there was a total want of sympathy between them be-
sides. Even William, though he still retained a sort of
rough regard for him, had begun to look askance on his
intimacy with Lillias; — his avowed love, too, for the modern,
gave no little offence. The farm of Meikle Farness was ob-
solete enough in its usages and modes of tillage, to have
formed no uninteresting study to the antiquary. Towards
autumn, when the fields vary most in colour, it resembled
a rudely executed chart of some large island — so irregular
were the patches which composed it, and so broken on every
side by a surrounding sea of moor, that here and there went
winding into the interior in long river-like strips, or ex-
panded within, into friths and lakes. In one corner there
stood a heap of stones, in another a thicket of furze — here
a piece of bog, there a broken bank of clay. The imple-
ments with which the old man laboured in his fields, were as
primitive in their appearance as the fields themselves — there
was the one-stilted plough, the wooden-toothed harrow, and
the basket- woven cart, with its rollers of wood. With these,
too, there was the usual misproportion on the farm, to its
extent, of lean, inefficient cattle, four half-starved ani-
mals performing, with incredible effort, the work of one.
Thomson would fain have induced the old man, who was
evidently sinking in the world, to have recourse to a better
system — but he gained wondrous little by his advice. And
there was another cause which operated still more decidedly
against him : a wealthy young farmer in the neighbourhood
had been, for the last few months, not a little diligent in his
attentions to Lillias. He had lent the old man, at the pre-
ceding term, a considerable sum of money ; and had
ingratiated himself with the stepmother, by chiming in on
all occasions with her humour, and by a present or two
besides. Under the auspices of both parents, therefore, he
had now paid his addresses to Lillias ; and, on meeting with
a repulse, had stirred them both up against Thomson

The fisherman was engaged one evening in fishing his
nets ; the ebb was that of a stream tide, and the bottom of
almost the entire Bay lay exposed to the light of the setting
sun, save that a river-like strip of water wound through
the midst. He had brought his gun with him, in the
hope of finding a seal or otter asleep on the outer banks ;
but there were none this evening ; and, laying down his
piece against one of the poles of the wear, he was employed
in capturing a fine salmon that went darting like a bird
from side to side of the inner enclosure, when he heard
some one hailing him by name from outside the nets.
He looked up, and saw three men, one of whom he recog-
nised as the young farmer who was paying his addresses to
Lillias, approaching from the opposite side of the Bay.
They were all apparently much in liquor, and came stag-
gering towards him in a zig-zag track along the sands. A
suspicion crossed his mind that he might find them other

than friendly ; and, coming out of the enclosure, where,
from the narrowness of the space and the depth of the
water, he would have lain much at their mercy, he employed
himself in picking off the patches of sea- weed that adhered
to the nets, when they came up to him and assailed him
with a torrent of threats and reproaches. He pursued his
occupation with the utmost coolness, turning round, from
time to time, to repay their abuse by some cutting repartee.
His assailants discovered they were to gain little in this sort
of contest ; and Thomson found in turn that they were
much less disguised in liquor than he had at first supposed,
or than they seemed desirous to make it appear. In reply
to one of his more cutting sarcasms, the tallest of the three,
a ruffian-looking fellow, leaped forward and struck him on
the face ; and in a moment he had returned the blow with
such hearty good-will that the fellow was dashed against
one of the poles. The other two rushed in to close with
him. He seized his gun, and springing out from beside the
nets to the open bank, dealt the farmer, with the but-end,
a tremendous blow on the face, which prostrated him in an
instant ; and then cocking the piece and presenting it, he
commanded the other two, on peril of their lives, to stand
aloof. Odds of weapons, when there is courage to avail
oneself of them, forms a thorough counterbalance to odds
of number. After an engagement of a brief half minute,
Thomson's assailants left him in quiet possession of the
field ; and he found, on his way home, that he could trace
their route by the blood of the young farmer. There went
abroad an exaggerated and very erroneous edition of the
story, highly unfavourable to the salmon-fisher ; and he
received an intimation^ shortly after, that his visits at the
farm-house were no longer expected. But the intimation
came not from Lillias.

The second year of his speculation had well-nigh come to
a close, and, in calculating on the quantum of his shipments
and the state of the markets, he could deem it a more suc-
cessful one then even the first. But his agent seemed to be
assuming a new and worse character : he either substituted
promises and apologies for his usual remittances, or ne-
glected writing altogether ; and, as the fisherman was em-
ployed one day in dismantling his wears for the season,
his worst fears were realized by the astounding intelligence
that the embarrassments of the merchant had at length ter-
minated in a final suspension of payments !

"There," said he, with a coolness which partook in its
nature in no slight degree of that insensibility of pain and
injury which follows a violent blow — " there go well-nigh
all the hard-earned savings of twelve years, and all my
hopes of happiness with Lillias !" He gathered up his
utensils with an automaton-like carefulness, and, throwing
them over his shoulders, struck across the sands in the
direction of the cottage. " I must see her," he said, " once
and bid her farewell." His heart swelled to his

more,

throat at the thought ; but, as if ashamed of his weakness,
he struck his foot firmly against the sand, and proudly
raising himself to his full height, quickened his pace. He
reached the door, and, looking wistfully, as he raised the
latch, in the direction of the farm-house, his eye caught a
female figure coming towards the cottage through the bushes
of the ravine. " 'Tispoor Lillias !" he exclaimed. "Can she
already have heard that I am unfortunate, and that we
must part ?" He went up to her, and, as he pressed her
hand between both his, she burst into tears.

It was a sad meeting — meetings must ever be such
when the parties that compose them bring each a separate
grief, which becomes common when imparted.

" I cannot tell you," said Lillias to her lover, " how
unhappy I am. My stepmother has not much love to
bestow on any one ; and so, though it be in her power to
deprive me of the quiet I value so much, I care compara-
tively little for her resentment Why should I not ? She is

31H

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

interested in no one but herself. As for Simpson, I can
despise without hating him ; wasps sting, just because it is
their nature, and some people seem bom in the same way,
to be mean-spirited and despicable. But my poor father,
who has been so kind to me, and who has so much heart
about him — his displeasure has the bitterness of death to me.
And then he is so wildly and unjustly angry with you.
Simpson has got him, by some means, into his power —
I know not how ; my stepmother annoys him contin-
ually ; and, from the state of irritation in which he is kept,
he is saying and doing the most violent things imagin-
able, and making me so unhappy by his threats." And
she again burst into tears.

Thomson had but little of comfort to impart to her.
Indeed he could afterwards wonder at the indifference with
which he beheld her tears, and the coolness with which he
communicated to her the story of his disaster. But he had not
yet recovered his natural tone of feeling. Who has not ob-
served that, while, in men of an inferior and weaker cast, any
sudden and overwhelming misfortune unsettles their whole
minds, and all is storm and uproar, in minds of a superior
order, when subjected to the same ordeal, there takes place
a kind of freezing, hardening process, under which they
maintain at least apparent coolness and self-possession ?
Grief acts as a powerful solvent to the one class — to the
other it is as the waters of a petrifying spring.

" Alas, my Lillias !" said the fisherman, " we have not
been born for happiness and each other. We must part —
each of us to struggle with our respective evils. Call up
all your strength of mind — the much in your character
that has as yet lain unemployed — and so despicable a thing
as Simpson will not dare to annoy you. You may yet meet
with a man worthy of you ; some one who will love you
as well as — as one who can at least appreciate your value,
and who will deserve you better." As he spoke, and his
mistress listened in silence and in tears, William Stewart
burst in upon them through the bushes ; and with a coun-
tenance flushed and a frame tremulous with passion, assailed
the fisherman with a torrent of threats and reproaches.
He even raised his hand. The prudence of Thomson gave
way under the provocation. Ere the blow had descended,
he had locked the farmer in his grasp, and with an exertion
of strength which scarcely a giant would be capable of in a
moment of less excitement, he raised him from the earth,
and forced him against the grassy side of the ravine, where
he held him despite of his efforts. A shriek from Lillias
recalled him to the command of himself. " William
Stewart," he said, quitting his hold and stepping back,
"you are an old man, and the father of Lillias." The
farmer rose slowly and collectedly, with a flushed cheek
but a quiet eye, as if all his anger had evaporated in the
struggle, and, turning to his daughter —

" Come, Lillias, my lassie," he said, laying hold of her
arm, " I have been too hasty — I have been in the wrong."
And so they parted.

Winter came on, and Thomson was again left to the soli-
tude of his cottage, with only his books and his own thoughts
to employ him. He found little amusement or comfort in
either ; he could think of only Lillias — that she loved and
was yet lost to him.

' Generous, and affectionate, and confiding," he nas said,
when thinking of her, « I know she would willingly share
with me in my poverty; but ill would I repay her kindness
in demanding of her such a sacrifice. Besides, how could I
endure to see her subjected to the privations of a destiny so
humble as mine ? The same heaven that seems to have
ordained me to labour and to be unsuccessful, has given me
a mind not to be broken by either toil or disappointment ;
but keenly and bitterly would I feel the evils of both, were
she to be equally exposed. I must strive to forget her, or
think of her only as my friend. ' And, indulging in such

thoughts as these, and repeating and re-repeating similar
resolutions — only, however, to find them unavailing — winter,
with its long, dreary nights, and its days of langour and in-
activity, passed heavily away. But it passed.

He was sitting beside his fire, one evening late in Feb-
ruary, when a gentle knock was heard at the door. He
started up, and, drawing back the bar, William Stewart
entered the apartment.

" Allan," said the old man, " I have come to have some
conversation with you, and would have come sooner, but
pride and shame kept me back. 1 fear I have been much
to blame."

Thomson motioned him to a seat, and sat down beside
him.

" Farmer," he said, "• since we cannot recall the past, we
had, perhaps, better forget it."

The old man bent forward his head till it rested almost
on his knee, and for a few moments remained silent.

" I fear, Allan, I have been much to blame," he at length
reiterated. " Ye maun come an' see Lillias. She is ill, vert
ill — an' I fear no very like to get better." Thomson
was stunned by the intelligence, and answered he scarcely
knew what. " She has never been richt hersel," continued
the old man, " sin' the unlucky day, when you an' I met in
the burn here ; but for the last month she has been little
out o' her bed. Since mornin there has been a great change
on her, an' she wishes to see you. I fear we havena meikle
time to spare, an' had better gang." Thomson followed
him in silence.

They reached the farm-house of Meikle Fatness, and
entered the chamber where the maiden lay. A bright fire
of brushwood threw a flickering gloom on the floor and
rafters, and their shadows, as they advanced, seemed danc-
ing on the walls. Close beside the bed there was a small
table, bearing a lighted candle, and with a Bible lying open
upon it, at that chapter of Corinthians in which the Apostle
assures us that the dead shall rise and the mortal put on
immortality. Lillias half sat, half reclined, in the upper
part of the bed. Her thin and wasted features had already
the stiff rigidity of death, her cheeks and lips were colour-
less, and, though the blaze seemed to dance and flicker on
her half-closed eyes, they served no longer to intimate to
the departing spirit the existence of external things.

" Ah, my Lillias !" exclaimed Thomson, as he bent over
her, his heart swelling with an intense agony. " Alas ! has
it come to this !"

His well-known voice served to recall her, as from the
precincts of another world. A faint melancholy smile passed
over her features, and she held out her hand.

" I was afraid," she said, in a voice sweet and gentle as
ever, though scarcely audible through extreme weakness,
" I was afraid that I was never to see you more. Draw
nearer — there is a darkness coming over me, and I hear but
imperfectly. I may now say with a propriety which no one
will challenge, what I durst not have said before. Need I
tell you that you were the dearest of all my friends — the
only man I ever loved — the man Avhose lot, however low
and unprosperous, I would have deemed it a happiness to
be invited to share? I do not, however — I cannot reproach
you. I depart and for ever; but, oh, let not a single
thought of me render you unhappy ; my few years of life
have not been without their pleasures, and I go to a better
and brighter world. I am weak and cannot say more ; but
let me hear you speak. Read to me the eighth chapter of
Romans."

Thomson, with a voice tremulous and faltering through
emotion, read the chapter. Ere he had made an end, the
maiden had again sunk into the state of apparent insen-
sibility out of which she had been so lately awakened
though, occasionally, a faint pressure of his hand, which
she still retained, shewed him that she was not unconscious

TALES OF THE BORDERS

319

of his presence. At length, however, there was a total re-
laxation of the grasp — the cold damp of the stiffening palm
struck a chill to his heart — there was a fluttering of the
pulse, a glazing of the eye — the hreast ceased to heave, the
heart to beat — the silver cord parted in twain, and the
golden bowl was broken. Thomson contemplated, for a
moment, the body of his mistress, and, striking his hand
against his forehead, rushed out of the apartment.

He attended her funeral — he heard the earth falling
heavy and hollow on the coffin-lid — he saw the green sod
placed over her grave — he witnessed the irrepressible
anguish of her father, and the sad regret of her friends —
and all this without shedding a tear. He was turning to
depart, when some one thrust a letter into his hand ; he
opened it almost mechanically. It contained a consider-
able sum of money, and a few lines from his agent, stating,
that, in consequence of a favourable change in his circum-
stances, he had been enabled to satisfy all his creditors.
Thomson crumpled up the bills in his hand. He felt as if
his heart stood still in his breast ; a noise seemed ringing
in his ears ; a mist cloud appeared as if rising out of the
earth and darkening round him. He was caught, when
falling, by old William Stewart, and, on awakening to con-
sciousness and the memory of the past, found himself in
his arms. He lived for about ten years after, a laborious
and speculative man. ready to oblige, and successful in all
his designs. And no one deemed him unhappy. It was ob-
served, however, that his dark brown hair was soon mingled
with masses of grey, and that his tread became heavy and
his frame bent. It was remarked, too, that, when attacked
by a lingering epidemic, which passed over well-nigh the
whole country, he of all the people was the only one that
sank under it.

COMPENSATION

IT is curious to contemplate the various modes by which
people attempt to obtain triumphs over each other in this
bad world. Some conceive that the very best way is to
punish their enemies ; some, again, take the Christian doc-
trine of holding up " the other cheek ;" and some are of
opinion, that there is no such thing at all as the luxury of
a real, bunajide, lasting, and unqualified triumph to be had by
one man over another. Let us see. We think that the
case of simple Walter Wylie, who was, for a long time, so
well known in the town of Inverkeithing for his peculiar
manner of bringing out his sage philosophy of life, after the
pawky form of some packmen, who, when they are satisfied
they have a real good article to shew, affect a simplicity
and scarcity of words of laudation, the very opposite of the
verbose and stately declamation by which they endeavour
to dispose of their general stock. The quality of Walter's
moral and political commodities, was clearly indicated by the
quantum of simple naivete infused into his speech and coun-
tenance, while in the act of narration — his effort at the more
pure degrees of simplicity being in exact proportion to the
estimate — never a wrong one — which he himself made of
the excellence of the communication his peculiar inspir-
ation enabled him to produce. His shop, in the High Street
of Inverkeithing, in which he sold a variety of those commo-
dities which are necessary for the sustenance of the human
corporation, brought him more clearly into public notice.
Directly opposed to honest Walter, (as he was styled by
the people,) both in manners and locality, was William
Harrison, who carried on the same kind of business, in a
shop on the other side of the street. The ordinary rival-
ship existed between them, and they took their different
modes of recommending themselves to their customers —
die one, Harrison, by a most verbose and figurative sign-

boara, and a most loquacious speech, and the oilier by his
peculiar simplicity of enunciation and publication of the
qualities of his wares. The former was both a philosophi-
cal and a practical rogue. The latter, again, was as honest
as steel ; and his honesty and simple humour combined,
made him be beloved by all that knew him; while his
rival, who bore to his simple friend a most inveterate spite,
was mortally hated for his roguery throughout the whole
burgh.

Now, it happened that Harrison, with a view to two
objects— -first, the gratification of his never-sleeping spirit
of roguery; and, secondly, the ruin, or at least the in-
convenience, of simple Walter — bought up, from a neigh-
bouring rogue, a debt alleged to be due by Walter, but
which the latter had truly paid, though he had neglected
to get it cancelled or discharged, by a probative receipt.
It amounted to about £100 j and Harrison paid for it
only about £5, with a condition of paying the cedent
£5 more, in the event of the entire sum being wrung out
of the simple Walter, by the wrenching wheel of a horning.
As soon as Walter heard that his rival and enemy Harrison
had bought up the false debt, he knew, by an instinct which
had nothing wonderful about it, that he was committed
for a tough fight ; but he retained his equanimity, and
even his simple naivete hung about his mouth and small
twinkling eyes, in the same manner as if no horning or
any such thunderbolt of Jove, had been in the act of being
forged against him. One day his enemy came into his shop.

" Mr Wylie," said he, with a most pert loquacity, and
holding up the homing in his hand, " I have a piece ot
paper here, in which there is the name of Walter Wylie, as
debtor to me in the sum of £100. I think you had better
pay me at present, for I do not wish to let the debt lie,
and ruin you by allowing a large sum of interest to run up
against you."

" I thank ye," replied simple Walter, with an obsequious
bow, and then proceeded with the business in which he was
engaged. Harrison waited, expecting his debt; but Walter
continued his operations. f< I winna tak the present o'
your interest," again said Walter; " ye needna wait. And
as for your horning, it wadna row up three pounds o' my
sugar. You are as welcome to it as to the interest."

This answer produced a laugh among the customers
against Harrison, who, swearing he would have a caption
and apprehend Walter the next day, walked out to in-
struct his agent to put his threat into execution. He had
scarcely gone, when several of his (Harrison's) creditors —
for he himself was great as a debtor — arrested in Walter's
hands the false debt due to Harrison, so as to secure it to
themselves. The simple Walter was astonished at all this
parade about a debt that he had already paid ; but he never
lost his simple naivete or his temper, and was determined
to go to jail as meekly as a lamb. Meanwhile, the inhabit-
ants heard of the expected incarceration of their favourite,
and insisted upon his defeating the schemes of his enemy,
by resisting, according to law, his unjust demands ; but
Walter, with a good-natured smile, said that he trusted all
to the ways of Providence.

Next morning, Walter, altogether unconcerned about his
apprehension, went forth to take his walk in the green
fields, according to his custom, although it might be to
take his breakfast in the old Tolbooth, which frowned upon
him as he passed. He had wandered a little way in the
country, when he thought he observed two men slipping
along behind a thorn hedge, as if they wished to escape
detection ; and, impelled by curiosity, he slipped along the
other side of the same hedge upon his hands and his feet,
and, having seen the men deposit something in the side of
a neighbouring dike, squatted down as if he had been shot
dead, and lay there as still as death until the men went
away. Up then rose Walter, and, going cautiously, look

320

TALES OF THE BORDEHS.

ing around him again and again as lie crept along, he
came to the hole in the dike, and, having examined it,
found lying there a large bundle of bank-notes, amounting
to no less than £500. Putting the money into his pocket,
he, by one leap, got to the middle of the road, when,
having folded his hands behind his back and struck up
a very merry tune, he continued his walk, with a slow
and comfortable composure, which was pleasant to see.
Several people passed him ; and, as he was never heard
to whistle before, they wondered mightily that simple
Walter should whistle so merry a tune, and, more so, on
the morning of that day when he was to be put into prison.
AVhen he went a little farther, still whistling and saunter-
ing, with a very easy and pleasant carelessness, whom does
lie meet ? Why. no other than William Harrison, flying
along the road like a madman, calling out if any one had
seen two blackguard-looking men on the way ; for that his
shop had been robbed during the night, and all the money
ne had in the world taken out of it and carried away.

" I saw the blackguards," replied Walter. " They're awa
doun by Gibson's loan yonder, as fast as if a messenger wi'
a hornin and caption was at their heels."

And he again whistled his tune — a circumstance that
struck Harrison, who had never heard him whistle before,
with as much surprise as his announcement ; but he had
no time .to wonder or reply, and away he shot like a pur-
suing messenger, while Walter walked into the town, and
opened his shop, wherein he deposited the £500, and pro-
ceeded to serve his customers with as much simplicity and
good humour as ever.

The news of the loss sustained by Harrison went like
wild-fire throughout the burgh ; and every one wondered
that a man who owed so much money should have had so
large a sum as £500 in the house at one time ; and it was
suspected that he intended to fly the country with the
money as soon as he could wring the false debt out of
simple Watty. Every inquiry was made after the robbers,
but they could not be traced; and now Harrison, made
savage by his loss and the allusion made by Watty about
the messenger, got his caption frae Edinburgh by a special
messenger, and sent to apprehend Walter for the false debt.

" I have a caption against you, Mr Wylie," said the
messenger, as he entered. " Will you pay the debt, or go
with me ?"

" If you'll wait," replied Watty, with the greatest sim-
plicity, " till I weigh this pound o' sugar to Jenny Gilchrist,
I'll tak a step wi' ye as far as the jail."

And, proceeding to serve his customer, he indulged in
some of his dry jokes in the very same way he used to do ;
and, when he had finished, called up his wife to serve the
shop, and walked with great composure away with the
messenger to that place of squalor and squalid misery. He
was, in due form, entered in the jailor's books, and de-
posited in the old black building, as a jail-bird, where, if he
chose, he might whistle as gaily as he did in the morning
when he went out to hear the larks singing in the clouds, to
which celestial residence he had so unexpectedly accom-
panied them. The news now spread far and wide that
Walter Wylie was in prison, and many efforts were made
to get him to pay the debt at once and gain his liberty ; but
Walter knew himself what he was about ; and, having thus
ascertained how far Harrison would go, he sent for a writer,
and, having given him instructions and a part of the £500
to pay his expenses, got out in a few days on what the
honest men of the law call a suspension and liberation.

Some time afterwards, Harrison himself having lost all
his money, was put into jail at the instance of one of his
creditors, who was enraged at the scheme he had resorted
to for defrauding them ; and there he lay in the very same
room in which Watty had been deposited. Harrison's
creditor was a good and gwlly man, and, like Walter, was

an elder of the church ; and the people pitied him greatly
for the loss he was likely to sustain through the rogue who
had thus cheated so many poor people. His debt was £50 ;
and, to the wonder and amazement of all the inhabitants,
he got full payment from Walter Wylie, Avhereupon Har-
rison was immediately let out of prison.

No sooner was it known that Walter had paid one debt
of Harrison's, than another creditor apprehended the rogue,
and lodged him again in jail. He was allowed to lie
there for a considerable time, when Watty again came
forward and paid this debt also — whereupon he was again
allowed to escape. A third creditor followed the example
of the two others, and the rogue was again committed to
durance ; but this time Watty allowed him to remain for
a longer time, and then paid the debt, that he might deal
out his punishment in due proportions. A fourth time the
rogue was apprehended, and a fifth and a sixth time, and,
upon each of these occasions, he was allowed to remain for
as long a time as Watty thought might produce as mud.
pain as it was his intention to inflict. Altogether Harrison
had thus lain about eight months in prison. His debts
were now all paid, and the whole sum of £500 exhausted —
having been honestly divided among those creditors whose
debts were just, and who required them for the support of
their wives and children. No part of the £500 was kept
to answer the false debt claimed against Watty, because he
had secured himself against that demand by getting assig-
nations to the debts he paid, whereby he might plead com-
pensation against his persecutor. Thus had he, in his own
quiet way, saved himself, punished a rogue, and brought
peace and comfort to the homes of a number of deserving
men, whose debts otherwise would never have been paid.

The wonder produced by this extraordinary proceeding, on
the part of Watty, was unparalleled ; and what nobody could
comprehend, they were surely entitled to wonder at. Some
thought the simple creature mad, and his friends tried to
interfere to prevent so reckless a squandering of his means.

"I am surprised, Mr Wylie," said his clergyman to him,
one day, in the presence of a number of people who were
collected in the shop — " I am surprised at this proceeding
of yours, which has spread far and wide throughout the
country. If your motive be a secret, I will not ask it from
thee ; but, if it is a fair and legitimate question, I would
make bold to put it to thee, as one of my flock and an elder
of our church."

" There is nae secret about it, sir," replied Watty, with
his accustomed simplicity. " We are told to do guid to
them wha hate us, and pay for them wha despitefully per-
secute us." And he leered a grotesque look of simple
cajolery in the face of the godly man.

" I fear thou misquotest the holy book, Mr Wylie," re
plied the minister. " We are asked to pray for our ene
mies ; but not to pay for them."

" Ay ! ay !" ejaculated Watty, in surprise. " Is it
possible that that single letter ' r' should hae cost a puir,
simple body £500 ?"

The minister stared and the people wondered ; but, up
to this day, none ever knew why simple Walter Wylie paid
the debts of his enemy Harrison.

WILSON'S

, afrafctttonarg, ana

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE MOUNTAIN STORM.

Foil several days the wind had been easterly, with an
intense frost. At last, however, the weather subsided into
a calm and dense fog, under which, at mid-day, it was
difficult to find one's way amidst those mountain tracts
along which, in general, my route lay. The grass and heath
were absolutely loaded with hoar frost. My cheeks became
encompassed by a powdered covering ; my breath was
intensely visible, and floated and lingered about my face with
an oppressive and almost suffocating density. No sun, moon,
or star had appeared for upwards of forty-eight hours ;
when, according to my preconcerted plan, I reached the
farm town of Burnfoot. I was now in the centre of Queens-
berry Hills, the most notable sheep pasturage in the south
of Scotland. It was about three o'clock of the 15th day
of January, Avhen, under a cheerful welcome from the guid-
wife, I rested my pack (for, be it known, I belong to this class
of peripatetic merchants) upon the meal ark, disengaged
my arms from the leather straps by which the pack was
suspended from my shoulders, and proceeded to light my
pipe at the blazing peat-fire. Refreshments, such as are
best suited to the packman's drouth, were soon and amply
supplied, and I had the happiness of seeing my old acquaint-
ances (for I visited Burnfoot twice a-year, on my going and
coming from Glasgow to Manchester) drop z'wfrom their seve-
ral avocations, one after another, and all truly rejoiced to be-
hold my face, and still more delighted to inspect the treasure
and the wonders of " the pack." At last the guidman
himself suspended his plaid from the mid-door head, put oif
his shoes and leggings, assumed his slippers, together with
his prescriptive seat at the head or upper end of the lang-
settle. The guidwife, returning butt from bedding the
youngest of some half-score of children, welcomed her
husband with a look of the most genuine affection. She
put a little creepy stool under his feet, felt that his clothes
were not wet, scolded the dogs to a respectful distance,
and inspired the peats into a double blaze. The oldest
daughter, now " woman grown," sat combing the hoar frost
from her raven locks, and looking out from beneath beautifully
arched and bushy eyebrows upon the interesting addition
which had been made to the meal ark. Some half-a-score
of healthy lads and lasses occupied the bench ayont the fire,
o'er-canopied by sheep-skins, aprons, stockings, and footless
hose. The dogs, after various and somewhat noisy differ-
ences had been adjusted, fell into order and position around
the hearth, enjoying the warmth, and licking, peacefully and
carefully, the wet from their sides. The cat, by this time,
had made a returning motion from the cupboard head, from
which she had been watching the arrangements and move-
ments beneath. As this appeared to " Help" to be an,
infringement of the terms of armistice and of the frontier
laws, he sprang with eagerness over the hearth. Pussy,
finding it dangerous, under this sudden and somewhat un-
expected movement, " dare terga," instantly drew up her
whole body into an attitude, not only of defence, but defiance ;
curving herself into a bristling crescent, with the head of a
dragon attached to it, and, with one horrid hiss and sputter,
compelled Help first to hesitate and then to retreat.
145 Vol. III.

" Three paces back flie youth retired,
And saved himself from harm."

The guidwife, however — who seemed not unaccustomed
to such demonstrations, and who manifestly acted on the
humane principle of assisting the weaker, by assailing the
stronger combatant— gave Help such demonstrations of
her intentions, as at once reduced matters to the status quo
ante helium. (I have as good a right to scholarship as my
brother packman, Plato, who carried oil to Egypt.) Thus
peace and good order being restored, the treasures of my
burden became an immediate and a universal subject of
inquiry. I was compelled, nothing loath, to unstrap my
various packages, and disclose to view all the varied treasures
of the spindle and loom. Shawls were spread out into
enormous display, with central, and corner, and border
ornaments, the most amazing and the most fashionable; waist-
coat-pieces of every stripe and figure, from the straight
line to the circle, of every hue and colouring which the
rainbow exhibits, were unfolded in the presence and under
the scrutinizing thumb of many purchasers. The guid-
wife herself half coaxed and half scolded a fine remnant
of Flanders lace, of most tempting aspect, out of the guid-
man's reluctant pocket. The very dogs seemed anxious to
be accommodated, and applied their noses to some unopened
bales, with a knowing look of inquiry. Things were pro-
ceeding in this manner, when the door opened, and there
entered a young man of the most prepossessing appearance;
in fact, what Burns terras a " strapping youth." I would
observe that, at his entrance, the daughter's eye (of whom
I have formerly made mention) immediately kindled into
an expression of the most universal kindness and benevo-
lence. Hitherto she had taken but a limited interest in
what was going on ; but now she became the most promi-
nent figure in the group — whilst the mother dusted a chair
for the welcome stranger with her apron, and the guidman
welcomed him with a —

" Come away, "Willie "Wilson, an' tak a seat. The
nicht's gay dark an' dreary. I wonder hoo ye cleared the
"Whitstane Cleugh and the Side Scaur, man, on sic an eerie
nicht."

" Indeed," responded the stranger, casting a look, in the
meantime, towards the guidman's buxom, and, indeed,
lovely daughter — " indeed, it's an unco fearfu nicht — sic a
mist and sic a cauld I hae seldom if ever encountered ; but
I dinna ken hoo it was — I couldna rest at hame till I had
tellt ye a' the news o' the last Langhom market."

" Ay, ay," interrupted the guidwife ; '•' the last Langhom
market, man, is an auld tale noo, I trow. Na, na, yer
mither's son camna here on sic a nicht, and at sic an hour,
on sic an unmeaning errand" — finishing her sentence,
however, by a whisper into Willie's ear, which brought
a deeper red into his cheek, and seemed to operate -in
a similar manner on the apparently deeply engaged daugh-
ter.

fc But, Watty," continued my fair purchaser, " you must
give me this Bible a little cheaper — it's owre dear, man —
heard ever onybody o' five white shillings gien for a
Bible, and it only a New Testament, after a' ?— it's baith a
sin an' a shame, Watty 1"

After some suitable reluctance, I was on the ooint of

322

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

reducing the price by a single sixpence, when "Willie
Wilson advanced towards the pack, and, at once taking up
the book and the conversation — •

" Owre dear, Jessie, my dear ! — it's the word o' God, ye
ken — hig ain precious word ; and I'll e'en mak ye a present
o' the book, at Watty's ain price. Ye ken he maun live, as
we a' do, by his trade."

The money was instantly paid down from a purse pretty
well filled ; for William Wilson was the son of a wealthy
and much respected sheep-farmer in the neighbourhood,
and had had his name once called in the kirk, along with
that of " Janet Harkness of Burnfoot, both in this parish."

" Hoot, noo, bairns," rejoined the mother ; " ye're baith
wrang — that Bible winna do ava. Ye maun hae a big ha'
Bible to take the buik wi', and worship the God o' yer fathers
night an' morning, as they hae dune afore ye ; and Watty will
bring ye ane frae Glasgow the next time he comes roun ;
and it will, maybe, be usefu, ye ken, in anither way."

" Tout, mither, wi' yer nonsense," interrupted the con-
scious bride ; " I never liked to see my name and age
marked and pointed out to onybody on oor muckle Bible ;
sae just had yer tongue, mither, and tak a present frae
William and me" added she, blushing deeply, " o' that big
printed Testament. The minister, ye ken, seldom meddles
wi' the auld Bible, unless it be a bit o' the psalms ; and
yer een now are no sae gleg as they were whan ye were
married to my faither there."

The father, overcome by this well-timed and well-di-
rected evidence of goodness, piety, and filial affection, rose
from his seat on the lang settle, and, with tears in his eyes,
pronounced a most fervent benediction over the shoulders
of his child.

" O God in heaven, bless and preserve my dear Jessie !"
said he — his child's tears now falling fast and faster. " Oh,
may the God of thy fathers make thee happy — thee and
thine — him there and his ! — and when thy mother's grey
hairs and mine are laid and hid in the dust, mayst thou
have children, such as thy fond and dutiful self, to bless
and comfort, to rejoice and support thy heart !"

There was not, by this time, a dry eye in the family ;
and, as a painful silence was on the point of succeeding to
this outbreaking of nature, the venerable parent slowly
and deliberately took down the big ha' Bible from its bole
in the wall, and, placing it on the lang-settle table, he pro-
ceeded to family worship with the usual solemn prefatory
annunciation — " Let us worship God."

Love, filial affection, and piety — what a noble, what a
beautiful triumvirate ! By means of these, Scotland has
rendered herself comparatively great, independent, and happy.
These are the graces which, in beautiful union, have pro-
tected her liberties, sweetened her enjoyments, and exalted
her head amongst the nations, and which, over all, have cast
an expression and a feature irresistibly winning and nation-
ally characteristic. It is over such scenes as the kitchen
fireside of Burnfoot, now presented, that the soul hovers
with ever-awakening and ever-intenser delight ; that, even
amidst the coldness, and unconcern, and irreligion of an
iron age, the mind, at least at intervals, is redeemed into
ecstasy, and feels, in spite of habit, and example, and
deadened apprehensions, that there is a beauty in pure and
virgin love, a depth in genuine and spontaneous filial re-
gard, and an impulse in communion with Him that is most
high, which, even when taken separately, are hallowing
sacred, and elevating ; but which, when blended anc
softened down into one great and leading feature, prove
incontestibly that man is, in his origin and unalloyed nature
but a little lower than the angels.

Such was the aspect of matters in this sequestered anc
sanctified dwelling, when the house seemed, all at once, to
be smitten, like Job's, at the four corners. The soot fel
in showers into thegrale; the rafters creaked; the dus

descended; every door in the house rattled on its sneclr
and hinges ; and the very dogs sprung at once from theii
slumbers and barked. There was something so awful in.
the suddenness and violence of the commotion, that thj
prayer Avas abruptly and suddenly brought to a conclusion.

" Ay, fearfu, sirs !" were John Harkness' first words
when springing to his feet ; " but there is an awfu nicht.
Open the outer door, Jamie, and let us see what it is like."
The outer door was opened; but the drift burst in with
such a suffocating swirl, that a strong lad who encountered
it, reeled and gasped for breath.

"• The hogs !" exclaimed the guidman, "and the gimmers!
— where did ye leave them, Jamie ?"

" In Capleslacks," was the answer, "by east the Dod. The
wind has set in frae the nor'-east, and fifty score o' sheep,
if this continue, will never see the morning."

But what was to be done ?

" The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,"

and the whole atmosphere was one almost solid wreath
of penetrating snow : when you thrust forth your hand
into the open air, it was as if you had perforated an
iceberg. Burnfoot stands at the convergence of two moun-
tain glens, adown one of which the tempest came as from a
funnel — collected, compressed, irresistible. There was a
momentary look of suspense — every one eyeing the rest with
an expression of indecision and utter helplessness. The
young couple, by some law of affinity, stood together in a
corner. The shepherd lads, with Jamie Hogg at their head,
were employed in adjusting plaids to their persons. The
guidman had already resumed his leggings, and the dogs
were all exceedingly excited — amazed at this unexpected
movement, but perfectly resolved to do their duty.

"Jamie," said the guidman, "you and I will try to mak
oor way by the Head Scaur to Capleyetts, where the main
hirsel was left ; and Will, Tam, and Geordie will see after
the hogs and gimmers ayont the Dod."

" I, too," exclaimed a voice from the corner, over which,
however, a fair hand was pressed, and which was therefore
but indistinctly heard — " I will — (canna ye let me speak,
Jessie !) — I will not, I shall not be left behind — I will ac
company the guidman, and do what I can to seek and to save.'

" Indeed, and indeed, my dear James, ye can do nae guid—
ye dinna ken the grun like my faither ; and there's mony a
kittle step, forby the Head Scaur ; and, the Lord be wi' us !
on sic a nicht too." So saying, she clasped her betrothed
firmly around the neck, and absolutely compelled him to
relinquish his purpose. Having gained this one object, the
fair and affectionate bride rushed across the room to her
father, and falling down on her knees, grasped him by tbe
legs, and exclaimed —

" O mither, mither ! come and help me — come and helj
me ! faither, my dear faither, let Jamie Hogg gang, and the
rest ; they are young, ye ken, and as weel acquent as yersel
wi' the ly o' the glens ; but this is no a nicht for the faither
o' a family to risk his life to save his substance. O faither,
faither ! I am soon, ye ken, to leave you and bonny Burnfoot
— grant me, oh, grant me this one, this last request !"

The mother sat all this while, wringing her hands and
exclaiming —

" Ay, ay, Jenny, get him to stay, get him to stay !"

The father answered not a word, but, making a sign to
Hogg, and whistling on Help, and at the same time kissing
his now all but fainting child, he rushed out of the door,
(as Mrs Harkness said,) " like a fey man," and he and his
companion, with a suitable accompaniment of dogs, were
almost instantly invisible. The three other lads, suitably
armed and accompanied, followed the example set to them ;
and the guidwife, the two lovers, five or six younger branches,
and the female servants of the family, with myself, remained
at home in a state of anxiety and suspense which can be
better conceived than expressed.

TALES OF THE BORDERS

323

" The raxnished clock that clicked behind the door,"
with a force and a stroke loud and painful in the extremes
struck first ten., then eleven, then twelve ; but there was no
return : again and again were voices heard commingling with
the tempest's rush ; again and again did the outer door seem
to move backwards on its hinges; but nothing entered, save
the shrill pipe of the blast, accompanied by the comminuted
drift, Avhich penetrated through every seam and cranny. This
state of uncertainty was awful — even the ascertained reality
of death, partial or universal, had perhapsless of soul-benumb-
ing cold in it than this inconceivable suspense. It required
Willie Wilson's utmost efforts and mine to keep the frantic
women from madly rushing into the drift ; and the voice of
lamentation was sad and loud amongst the children and the
servant lasses — each of the latter class lamented, indeed, the
fate of all, but there was always an under prayer offered up
for the safety of Geordie, or Will, or Jamie, in particular.
At last the three lads who had encompassed the Dod,
arrived — alive, indeed, but almost breathless and frozen to
death. They had, however, surmounted incredible difficulties,
and had succeeded in placing their hirsel in a position of
comparative security ; but where were Jamie Hogg and the
guidman ? The violence of the storm had nothing abated,
the snow was every moment accumulating, and the danger
and difficulty increasing tenfold. Spirits, heat, and friction
gradually restored the three lads to their senses, and to the
kind attentions of their several favourites of the female order;
but there sat the mother and the daughter, whilst the father
was either, in all probability, dead or dying. The very
thought was distracting ; and, accordingly, the young bride,
now turning to her lover with a look of inexpressible anguish,
exclaimed —

" O Willie ! my ain dear Willie ! ye maun gang, after a — ye
maun gang this instant," (Willie was on his feet and plaided
Avhilst yet the sentence was unfinished,) "and try to rescue
my dear, dear faither from this awfu and untimely end ; but
tak care, oh, tak care, o' the big scaur, and keep far west by
Caplecleuch, and maybe ye'll meet them coming back that
way." These last words were lost in the drift, whilst Willie
Wilson, with his faithful follower, Rover, were penetrating,
and flouncing, and floundering their way towards the place
pointed out.

In about half-an-hour after this, the howl and scratch of
a dog were heard at the door-back, and Help immediately
rushed in, the welcome forerunner of his master and Hogg.
They had, indeed, had a fearful struggle, and fearful wan-
derings ; but, in endeavouring to avoid the dangerous,
because precipitous Head Scaur, they had wandered from
the track, and from the object of their travel ; and, after
having been inclined, once or twice, to lie down and take
a rest — (the deceitful messenger of death) — they had at
last got upon the track of Caple Water ; and, by keeping
to its windings — which they had often traced, at the risk
of being drowned — they had at last weathered the old
cham'er, the byre, and peat-stack, and were now, thank
God ! within " bigget wa's."

But where, alas ! was Willie Wilson ? Him, in conse-
quence of their deviations, they had missed ; and over him,
thus exposed, the tempest was still renewing, at intervals,
its hurricane gusts. There was one scream heard, such as
would have penetrated the heart of a tiger, and all was
still. There she lay, the beauteous, but now marble bride ;
her head reposing on her mother's lap — her lips pale as the
snow-drop — her eyes fixed and soulless — her cheek with-
out a tint — and her mouth half-open and breathless. Long,
long was the withdrawment; again and again was the dram-
glass applied to the mouth, to catch the first expiration
of returning breath ; ere the frame began to quiver, the
hands to move, the lips and cheeks to colour, and the
eyes to indicate the approaching return to reason and per-
ception.

" I have killed him, I have killed him 1" were the first
frantic accents. " I have murdered, murdered my dear
Willie ! It was me that sent him — forced him — compelled
him out— out into the drift — the cold, cold drift. Away !"
added the maniac—" away ! I'll go after him— I'll perish
with him— where he lies, there will I lie, and there will I
be buried. What ! is there none of ye that will make an
effort to save a perishing — a choking — oh, my God ! a
suffocating man ?"

Hereupon she again sank backwards, and was prevented
from falling by the arms of a father.

"0 my child!" said parental love and affection — "0
my dear wean!— oh, be patient!— God is guid— He has pre-
served us all— He will not desert him in the hour of hit
need — He neither slumbers nor sleeps — His hand is not
shortened that He cannot save — and what He can, He will
— He never deserted any that trusted in him. O my child !
my bairn — my first bom! — be patient — be patient. There —
there — there is a scratch at the door-back — it is Rover."

And to be sure Rover it was ; but Rover in despair.
His faithful companion and friend only entered the house
to solicit immediate aid — he ran round and round, look-
ing up into the face of every one with an expression of
the most imploring anxiety. The poor frantic girl sprung
from her father's embrace, and clung to the neck of the
well-known cur — she absolutely kissed him — (oh, to what
will not love, omnipotent, virtuous love, descend !) — then
rising in renewed recollection, she sat herself down on the
long settle beside her father, and burst into loud and pas-
sionate grief.

It was now manifest to all that something must be at-
tempted, else the young farmer must perish. Hogg,
though awfully exhausted, was the first to volunteer a new
excursion. The whole band were at once on their feet ; but
Jessie now clung to her father, as she had formerly done to
her lover, and would not let him go — indeed, the guid-
man was in no danger of putting his purpose into effect, for
he could scarcely stand on his feet. He sat, or rather fell
down, consequently, beside his daughter, and continued in
constant prayer and supplication at the throne of grace.
The daughter listened, and said she was comforted — the
voyagers were again on their way— the tempest had some-
what abated — the moon had once or twice shone out — and
there was now a greater chance of success in their under-
taking.

How we all contrived to exist during an interval of about
two hours, I cannot say ; but this I know, that the endur-
ance of this second trial was worse than the first, to all but
the sweet bride herself. Her mind had now taken a more
calm and religious view of the case. She repeated, at in-
tervals and pauses in her father's ejaculatory prayer —

«Yes — oh, yes — His will — His holy will be done ! The
Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away — blessed be the name
of the Lord for ever ! We shall meet again — oh, yes—
where the weary are at rest.

" ' A few short years of evil past,

We reach the happy shore
Where death-divided friends at last

Shall meet, to part no more.'

O father, is not that a gracious saying, and worthy of all
acceptation !"

At length the door opened, and in walked William
Wilson.

The reader needs scarcely to be told that the sagacious
dog had left his master floundered, and unable to extricate
himself in a snow wreath ; that the same faithful guide had
taken the searchers to the spot, where they found Wilson
just in the act of falling into a sleep— from which, indeed,
but for the providential sagacity of his dog, he had never
wakened; and that, by means of some spirits which they had
taken in a bottle, they completely restored and conducts
him home.

324

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Lives there one with soul so dead"
as not now to image the happy meeting betwixt bride and
bridegroom ; and, above all, the influence which this trial
had upon the happiness and religious character of their
future married and prosperous lot ?

It is, indeed, long since I have laid aside the pack — to
which, after a good education, I had taken, from a wandering
propensity — and taken up my residence in the flourishing
village of Thornhill, Dumfriesshire; living, at first, on the
profits of my shop, and now retired on my little, but, to me,
ample competency ; but I still have great pleasure in paying
a yearly visit to my friends of Mitchelslacks, and in
recalling with them, over a comfortable meal, the interesting
incidents of the snow storm, 1794.

THE MEDAL.

THE good effects resulting from a laudable emulation, are
observable in all the affairs of life. It is the true principle
of progression and improvement ; and, though it may change
its form and its name, is apparent throughout all the stages
of man's progress. The spirit of competition at school is
among its first indications, and, under the name of emula-
tion, it is highly valued as a means of acquiring superiority ;
but the same power is apparent in ambition,

" That last and strongest tyrant of the heart ;

and between these two — the first and last of our active
powers — how many forms of the same inspiring principle
might be discovered ! But the twofold spirit of good and
evil is apparent in all things ; and, while much good has
resulted from the common system of stimulating the emu-
lation of the young, there is unfortunately a danger attending
it, resulting from an infirmity in our nature, but which may
be diminished in proportion as it is made known. Our
meaning and moral will be made apparent from the following
genuine narrative of a distinguished cleve who (and there
are many such) assimilated the medal of scholastic merit
to the badge of the warrior, acquired at the termination of
a campaign. As the one is given for "deeds of glory
done," when no more is expected of the veteran, the other
was viewed as a final triumph; and vanity, taking the place of
exertion, urged the successful scholar to the brink of ruin.

I was educated in a Scottish university, where prizes
were distributed to the most distinguished students in each
class at the termination of the session. The most dis-
tinguished prize was a gold medal, value ten guineas, the
gift of a departed eleve, and awarded to the best scholar
in the mathematical class. Having a natural turn or bias
for mathematical pursuits, I applied myself night and day
to the attainment of this my object of ambition ; and this,
too, at the expense and neglect of all the other classes which
I attended. I was a very imperfect Latin scholar, I knew
almost nothing of Greek, and held the unscientific reasoning
of logic and moral philosophy in great contempt. By great
labour, and after a severe competition, I succeeded in attain-
ing the distinction at which I aimed, and saw myself blazoned
in. several newspapers as the holder of this distinguishing
badge. My great chum at college was a Mr Donald
Ferguson, a lad of a staid and persevering disposition, of a
well-balanced and judicious mind, and without any talents,
apparently, which bespoke future distinction- "We had been
friends and companions at school — our parents were friends
before us — and, although we differed materially in disposition,
this did not prevent the closest and most affectionate inter-
course. Oh ! such recollections asnow rushuponmy mind ! —

" Dear happy scenes of innocence -and ease

Scenes of my youth, when every sport could please I"

Ferguson and I spent whole days together in the solitude
of nature, with nothing but the deep blue and fleecy white
over head ; the stunted thorn and the croaking raven above ;
and the brawling brook and trout-dimpled pool before us.
In all games of activity, I had the start of Ferguson, and
was always first chosen at " King o' Cantilon," " the dools,"
and "shinty;" but he had the advantage again of me in feats
of strength and precision of eye — in the quoits and putting-
stone. But I am wandering from my purpose, and forget-
ting my narrative.

Ferguson would often admonish me that I was giving
offence to several professors, in order to gain the good
opinion of one, and that the applause which my medal
would procure for me might be too dearly bought at the
expense of every other department of study. I took all
this in good part, but without altering, in the least, my
conduct, as I answered that my friend was making a virtue
of necessity, and recommending that course of obscure dili-
gence to me which he by nature was destined to pursue.

In consequence of the eclat of the medal, I had an invit-
ation to make one of a pleasure party to Roslin, and had
the happiness of being introduced to some young ladies,
who had previously expressed to my friend Ferguson a wish
to make my acquaintance. We spent a most delightful day —

" 'Midst Roslin's bowers sae bright and bonny,
And a1 the sweets o' Hawthornden."

The ladies were young, bright, and beautiful, light of heart,
and delightfully pleasing in manners and conversation. I
had not been, previously, accustomed to such fascinating
society ; and I felt that kind of intoxication which youth,
innocence, and strong passion only can feel. I was all day
off" my feet, and gave way to every manner of fun, frolic,
and foolery, to shew that, though I was an immense phi-
losopher, I was still a man in every pulse and vein. There
was in this happy group one divine countenance ; an eye
so blue, and so soft, and so penetrating — lips that moved in
meaning, and held every instant communication of the most
electric character, with a little playful, almost wily dimple,
which gave the most varied fascination to a cheek of sun-
shine and almost rosy hue. Her form

" Was fresher than the morning rose
When the dew wets its leaves — unstained and pure
As is the lily or the mountain snow.''

In a word, as you will easily perceive, I was captivated ;
and could do nothing all the ensuing night but toss and
think, and think and toss, till nature at last steeped me
anew, not in forgetfulness, but in all the motley, medley
joys and gambols of Roslin. I had now become a student
of divinity ; but all study was with me at an end. No
party of young people — particularly where young ladies
were concerned — could be held without me ; and 1 had the
very great misfortune to be talked of by them as mon-
strous clever. The young lady to whom I had so long paid
particular attention, and at whose house (that of the widow
of a respected clergyman of the Church of Scotland) I had
long been a habitual and a welcome guest, at last consented
to receive me in future in the light of a lover. "We walked
it, talked it, and laughed it from morning to night, " as
other lovers do," and scarcely thought of either the past or
the future, being so completely engrossed with the present.
Time flew by on angel wings, fleeting as bright, and the
period of my examination, previous to my receiving license,
at last approached I had all the while a secret misgiving
that I would not stand a trial, in the Presbytery of Edin-
burgh in particular ; but I had no other residence for
several years, and, consequently, no other way of becoming
a licentiate. As good fortune would have it, the-mother of
my betrothed, through her interest with the Duke of
Queensberry's factor, had every chance of procuring me a
presentation the moment I was qualified to accept of it ;
and both she and her daughter would as soon have dreamt

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

325

that I would fail in opening my eyes as in obtaining the
indispensable requisite of a license. ' What I had anticipated
however,, actually took place : I was found so deficient in
the classics of Greece and Rome, that my license was
delayed, and I was remitted for twelve months to my
studies. This was a degree of disgrace and degradation
which altogether unmanned me. 1 could not face my
beloved Mary, or her mother, or any of my own friends and
acquaintances, under such circumstances. Sleep fled my
eyes, and my mind became unhinged. Existence itself
became a positive, insupportable misery. I fled to the
mountains ; but they, through all their glens and streams,
had tongues that syllabled beloved names, which I wished,
were it possible, to forget. Wherever I went, the horrors
of the past were ever present. People seemed to me to
stop and point the finger of scorn at me from every street
and door- way. At last, in a fit of despair, I rashly resolved
on self-destruction, and plunged headlong into Leith har-
bour. I have the sound of the waters still in my ears, and
that sound will, I verily believe, remain till that of the last
trumpet shall mingle with it. When I awoke from seem-
ing nonentity, I was surrounded by many and unknown
faces ; and my passage back to life was more terrific and
painful by far than my exit. I had been for some time in
a warm bed, and undergoing the means of resuscitation.
" Much kinder," thought I, " had ye been to let me go."
My name, parentage, &c., having been ascertained, my
father was written to, and I was kept in close custody till
his arrival. My father was a respectable farmer in Dum-
friesshire, and immediately hurried me away to my native
glen. My mother met me with tears ; but they were those
of sympathy and affection, and one word of reproach she
never uttered. I became gradually more and more calm ;
but at times the thoughts of the paradise which I had
lost, and the hell I had earned, would throw me absolutely
into convulsions. The calmness which gathered over my
soul was not that of resignation — it was the settled gloom of
despair. Religion was talked of and pressed upon me ;
but as yet I had no settled views on that subject. I neither
believed nor disbelieved : I was willing, when the subject
obtruded itself upon my thoughts, to get rid of it the best
way I could. At last my melancholy gradually undermined
a naturally good constitution, and it was manifest to my
medical adviser that I was verging towards that degree of
weakness and decay which, under various distinctive
appellations, is sure to terminate in death. A change of
scene was urged, and I was hurried away to Saturness
Point, that I might inhale the sea breeze, and be interested
in new objects. This measure was at first partially success-
ful ; but, happening to see a newspaper one day, in which
the settlement of my more steady companion in the very
church which I had once destined for myself was mentioned,
and reading in the very same page a notice of his marriage
with my beloved Mary, I became immediately frantic.
For years my mind was so far unhinged that a person was
appointed to watch my motions, and guard me from self-
destruction. " Oh, that cursed medal !" was I heard again
and again to exclaim ; " it is to this I have to trace my
every wo." What I endured during this dark and fearful
night, no power of fancy can image, no pen can describe.
Horresco • referens.

As God would have it, the person who was thus associated
with me night and day was religiously disposed, and took
occasion, when opportunity served, to lead my mind to
serious subjects — to talk of eternity, immortality, heaven,
and hell. Often did I kick against the pricks, and strive to
resume my former indifference ; but it would not do. The
very possibility of such awful truths was terrific. I awoke
all at once, as it were, to a sense of my imminent danger.
I found that I was sleeping on a parapet, from which to fall
was certain death. I fled with all possible speed to the

only city of refuge — to the redemption that is in Christ
Jesus. I grasped the truths of the gospel with the energy
of a dying creature. I hugged the very Bible to my bosom,
and read it night and day. Our conversations were pro-
tracted, and, to me, ultimately delightful. I found that there
was mercy even to the chief of sinners, and I regarded my-
self as personally referred to in the gracious intimation.
With the perception and cultivation of gospel truth, my
health gradually rallied, and my mind assumed a more
balanced attitude. It was about this time that my father
died, and the superintendence of a pretty extensive sheep
farm naturally devolved upon me. This avocation, uncon-
genial as it was to my college pursuits and feelings, still
occupied my attention, and withdrew me from reflections of
no very pleasing nature. In cultivating, or rather in re-
newing my acquaintance with the soil, and with its produc-
tions, vegetable as well as animal, I felt that I was placed
as it were in the outer vestibule of God's temple. Into the
holy of holies, through the blessed mediation, I had already
been introduced, and it gave me pleasure to behold the
outer, as well as to contemplate the inner courts of so
stupendous an erection. " The shepherd of Israel neither
slumbers nor sleeps. My sheep hear my voice. He shall
separate the sheep from the goats. The streams that run
amongst the hills. Mount Carmel, Mount Zion, Mount
Horeb." These and similar expressions, in which the Jewish
Scriptures, in particular, abound, came home to my newly
renovated, and, I trust, regenerated perceptions, with a
vividness and a force formerly unknown. I seemed to my-
self to be a dweller on the mountains of Jacob and amongst
the tents of Israel, as my flocks scattered themselves on the
hill side, or pursued the green pasturage by the streams of
waters. There was a harmony and correspondence betwixt
the seen and the unseen, the present and the past, the
temporal and the spiritual life, of which I every day became
more and more aware.

About this time we received intimation of the death of
my father's brother, who had gone, early in life, to King-
ston, in Jamaica, and had, by prosperous adventures as a
merchant, realized a considerable sum of money. After
various delays and much peculation, the residue of his
fortune, together with his will, was transmitted home, and I
found myself, as my father's heir-male, entitled to upwards
of £10,000. My mother had already greatly declined,
indeed she never fully rallied after my father's death ; and
on the very day on which the papers respecting the inherit-
ance arrived, I had to perform the last sad duties to one of
the best of parents. Alas ! that ever my unhappy conduct
should have occasioned pain and anxiety in a bosom where
pure affection and undefiled religion habitually resided ! I
had the consolation, however, to receive my mother's blessing
in her parting breath, and to hear her construe my miscon-
duct and misfortunes into merciful dispensations of a wise
Providence, who is ever bringing good out of seeming evil.
" And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression."

The lease of the farm having expired in a year after this,
I did not think of continuing on a spot which suggested so
many recollections connected with the departed ; so I at once
removed to furnished lodgings in Edinburgh, and gradually
renewed my acquaintance with a few of my still surviving
friends. Amorigst these was the mother of my Mary, who
informed me that her daughter was now a widow and with-
out family, and was expected in a month or two to return

to her old fireside from the Manse of . I do not know

how it was, but I trembled all over at this information, and
an image, which had for so long a time been almost obli-
terated from my memory, now rose before me in all its ori-
ginal loveliness. The two months appeared to me two
twelvemonths, till I again saw, and renewed my acquaintance
with the only woman whom my soul had ever Wed. Mu-

326

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

tual explanations took place : she had married my friend
Ferguson, under the impression that, if not dead, I was con-
fined in a lunatic asylum; and had only consented, after all, at
the earnest request of her mother. It was but yesterday that
we had a most delightful drive to Roslin, where I renewed my
addresses, and have been accepted. I have taken a neat
cottage near Hawthornden,wherel mean to spend with Mary
the remainder of my days, if not in the fervour of young
love, at least in the more enduring, perhaps, and more rational
endearments of mutual affection, friendship, and esteem.
The medal which was the foundation of all my sufferings,
I have at this moment suspended before me, in my study,
that I may be ever reminded of that false step which, but
for the interposition of Providence, might have ruined both
soul and body for ever. If it shall be in God's providence
that I am blessed with any pledges of affection by my dear
Mary, I shall endeavour to save them from the danger which
I so narrowly escaped ; yet, so strangely commingled are the
good and bad things of life — so very delicately are the fine
threads that go to form the web of our moral system con-
nected and interlaced — that it requires a hand finer than
mere man's to remove some of the dingy lines, so as to restore
to the whole that beauty it possessed when spread in the gar-
den of Eden. If we take from the noble steed the emulation
that may hurry him over the precipice, we will see him
distanced at the next St Leger. Must we, then, secure the
good, and run the risk of the attendant evil ? The answer
does not seem difficult. Let emulation be by all means
encouraged ; but let all teachers and parents impress upon
the minds of the fortunate competitors, the true value of
the prize won. And whilst efforts are made in one direc-
tion, let it ever be remembered that a useful education com-
prehends breadth as well as length ; and that the depart-
ments which have been neglected may prove, in future life,
those of the most essential value in promoting success and
securing happiness.

PEAT-CASTING TIME.

IN the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when
frolic and labour went hand in hand — when professional duty
and kind-hearted glee mutually kissed each other. The
" rocking" mentioned by Burns —

" On Fastening's E'en we had a rocking" —

I still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is
only under the refractive medium of vigorous recollection
that I can again bring up to view (as the Witch of Endor
did Saul) those images that have been reposing, " 'midst the
wreck of things that were," for more than fifty years. Yet
my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile
and juvenile festivities. There still sits Janet Smith, in her
toy-mutch and check-apron, projecting at intervals the well
filled spindle into the distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk,
elongating and twirling the yet unwound thread. Nanny
Nivison occupies a creepy on the further side of the fire,
(making the third Fate !) with her scars. Around, and on bed
sides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad ; Tarn
Kirkpatrick, with his joe Jean on his knee ; Rob Paton the
stirk-herd ; and your humble servant. And " now the crack
gaes round, and who so wilful as to put it by ?" The story
of past times ; the report of recent love-matches and mis-
carriages , the gleeful song, bursting unhid from the young
heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the
waters from the rock of Meribah ; the occasional female
remonstrance against certain welcome impertinences, in shape
of, " Come now, Tarn — nane o' yer nonsense." '•' Will ! I say,
be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk. 'Od, ye'll
squeeze the very breath out o' a body."

" Till in a social glass o' strunt,

They parted off careering

O'u sic a nigiit."

" Ye've heard a lilting at our ewes-milking."

How few of the present generation have ever heard of thi?
" lilting," except in song ! It is the gayest and sunniest
season of the year. The young lambs, in their sportive
whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating it, responsive to their
dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the plain are
marching —

" The labour much of man and dog"—

to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat
of their woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short,
broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing with the
jack-daw ! — all is bustle, excitement, and badinage.

" Weer up that ewe, Jenny lass. Wha kens but her
woo may yet be a blanket for you and ye ken wha, to
sleep in !"

" Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang name to yer books
and yer schooling. Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws
dirty your kirk riggin !"

Wouf, wouf, wouf ! — hee, hee, hee! — hoch, hoch, hoch!—
there in they go, and in they are, their horny heads wedged
over each other, and a trio of stout, well-made damsels,
with petticoats tied up " a la breeches," tugging away at
their well-filled dugs.

" Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye ; 'od, I think ye
hae gotten haud o' the auld tup himsel. He's as powerfu,
let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye kissed sae snug
last nicht ayont the peat-mou."

" Troth, at weel, Tarn, ye're a fearfu liar. They Avad be
fonder than I am o' cock birds wha wad gie tippence for
the stite o' a howlet."

" Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his
auld brass will buy you a new pan."

At this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible
from its universality, mixed as it is with the bleating of
ewes, the barking of dogs, together with the singing of
herd-laddies and of your humble servant.

Harvest is a blythe time ! May all the charms of
" Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on him" who shall first
invent a reaping machine ! The best of all reaping machines
is " the human arm divine," whether brawny and muscular,
or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all yeai
long at her domestic occupations — you would deem her
incapable of any out-door exertions ; but, at the sound of
the harvest-horn, she renews her youth, and sallies forth
into the harvest-field, with hook over shoulder, and a heart
buoyant with the spirit of the season, to take her place and
drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown
boy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in
frolic, in jest and jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest
and the most matured. Mothers and daughters, husbands
and wives, and, above and beyond all, "lads and lasses,
lovers gay !" mix and mingle in one united band, for honest
labour and exquisite enjoyment ; and when at last the
joyous kirn is won — when the maiden of straw is borne
aloft and in triumph, to adorn for twelve months the wall of
the farmer's ben — when the rich and cooling curds and
cream have been ram-horn-spooned into as many mouths
as there are persons in the " toun" — then comes the mighty
and long-anticipated festival, the roasted ox, the stewed
sheep, the big pot enriched with the cheering and inebriat-
ing draught, the punch dealt about in ladles and in jugs,
the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the Highland
fling.

" We cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to us !"

Hay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling
those of the grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and
glows with fainter colouring around the interior and the
brighter, so did the hay harvest of yore anticipate and pre-
figure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded to the sun ;

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

327

the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her
cheeks redolent of youtli and her eyes of joy, scattering
or collecting, carting or ricking the sweetly-scented meadow
produce, under a June sun and a blue sky !

" Oh, to feel as I have felt,
Or be what I have been!

the favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now
in its fourteenth summer — myself as pure and all unthink-
ing of aught but affection the most intense and feelings
the most soft and unaccountable.

' Ah, little did thy mother think,

That day she cradled thee,
What lands thou hadst to travel'in,
What death thou hadst to dee !"

Poor Jeanie Johnston ! i have seen her, only a few weeks
ago, during the sittings of the General Assembly, sunk in
poverty, emaciated by disease, the wife of an old soldier,
himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark hovel in
Pipe's Close, Castle Hill of Edinburgh.

In the upper district of Dumfriesshire — the land of my
birth, and of all those early associations which cling to me
as the mistletoe to the oak, and which are equally hallowed
with that druidical excrescence — there are no coals, but a
superabundance of moss ; consequently, peat-fires are very
generally still, and were, at the time of which I speak,
universally made use of; and a peat-fire, on a cold frosty
night of winter, when every star is glinting and goggling
through the blue, or when the tempest raves, and

" There's no a star in a' the cary" —

is by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived —
but then it kindles soon ; it does not, it is true, entertain
us with fantastic and playful jets of flame — but then its
light is full, united, and steady; the heat which it sends
out on all sides is superior to that of coals. "Wood is sullen
and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It eats away
into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat —

" The bleezing ingle and the clean hearth-stane" —
is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then
peats must be prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor
vegetate in meadows. They must be cut from the black
and consolidated moss ; and a peculiarly-constructed spade,
with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be made use of
for that purpose ; and into the field of operation must be
brought, at casting-time, the spademen with their spades;
and the barrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their
barrows ; and the breakfast sowans, with their creamy milk,
cut and crossed into circles and squares ; and the dinner
stew, with its sappy potatoes and gusty-onioned mutton
fragments ; and the rest at noon, with its active sports and
feats of agility, and, in particular, with its jumps from the
moss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath — and
thereby hangs my tale, which shall be as short and simple
as possible.

One of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy
Morrison. She was a year or so older than me ; but we
went and returned from school together. She was the only
daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself, in
a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by
bleaching or whitening webs. In those days the alkalis
and acids had not yet superseded the slower progress of
whitening green linen by soap-boiling, tramping, and alter-
nate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure running
water. Many is the time and oft, that Nanny and I have
wielded the watering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day
long. Whilst the humble-bee boomed past us, the mavis oc-
cupied the thorn -tree, and the mother of Nanny employed
herself in some more laborious department of the same pro-
cess, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward —
in-tenaci gramine — played at chucks, " head him and cross
him," or some such amusement. At school, Nanny had ever
a faithful defender and avenger in me ; and I have even

purloined apples and gooseberries from the castle garden—
and all for the love I bore " to my Nanny O !"

I know not that any one has rightly described a first
love. It is not the love of man and woman, though that
be fervent and terrible — it is not the love of mere boy and
girlhood, though that be disinterested and engrossing —
but it is the love of the period of life which unites the two.
" Is there a man whose blood is warm within him " who
does not recollect it ? Is there a woman who has passed
through the novitiate of fifteen, who has not still a distinct
impression of the feeling of which I speak. It is not sexual,
and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes. It is the
sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being
can pass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in
absence of the adored — in seclusion, in meditation, and in
dreams — it is bold, resolute, and determined. There is no
plan, no design, no right conception of cause ; yet the effect
is sure and the bliss perfect. Oh, for one hour — one little
hour — from the thousands which I have idled, sported,
dreamed away in the company of my darling school-com-
panion Nancy !

Will Mather was about two years older than Nancy — a
fine youth, attending the same school, and evidently an
admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love of comparative
boyhood ; but his was a passion gradually ripening (as
the charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a
manly and matrimonial feeling. I loved the girl merely as
such — his eye, his heart, his whole soul were in his future
bride. Marriage in no shape ever entered into my compu-
tations ; but his eager look and heaving bosom bespoke the
definite purpose — he anticipated felicity. I don't know
exactly why, but I was never jealous of Will Mather — we
were companions ; and he was high-souled and generous,
and stood my friend in many perilous quarrels. I knew
that my pathway in life was to be afar from that in which
Nancy and Will were likely to walk ; and I felt in my
heart that, dear as this beautiful rose-bud was to me, I was
not man enough — I was not peasant enough to wear it in
my bosom. Had Nancy on any occasion turned round to
be kissed by me, I would have fled over muir and dale, to
avoid her presence — and yet I had often a great desire to
obtain that favour. Once indeed, and only once, did I obtain,
or rather steal it. She was sitting beside a bird's nest, the
young ones of which she was feeding and cherishing — for
the parent birds, by the rapacity of a cat, had recently
perished. As the little bills were expanding to receive
their food, her countenance beamed with pity and benevo-
lence. I never saw even her so lovely — so, in a moment,
I had her round the neck, and clung to her lips with the
tenacity of a creature drowning. But, feeling at once the
awkwardness of my position, I took to my heels, becoming
immediately invisible amidst the surrounding brushwood.

Such was " Will Mather," and such was " Nancy Mor-
rison " at the period of which I am speaking. Wre must
now advance about two or three years in our chronology,
and find Will possessed of a piece of information which
bore materially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegi-
timate child. His mother had kept the secret so well
that he did not know his father, though he had frequently
urged her to reveal to him privately all that she knew of
his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now-
aflfianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes ; whilst she,
with a becoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not
to press an aged parent on so delicate a point. At last the
old woman was taken seriously ill, and, on her death-bed
and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of his birth.
He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a much
respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his
mother's eyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode
of his father, and, entering by a window, was in his father's
bed-chamber and over his body ere he was fully awake.

328

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

John Scott !" said the son, In a firm and terrible tone,
grasping his parent meantime convulsively round the neck
— " John Scott of Auchincleuch, / am thy son!"

The conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise,
and almost imagining this a supernatural intimation from
heaven, exclaimed, in trembling accents —

" But who are you that makes this averment ?"
" I am thy son, father — oh, I am thy son ! "
Will could no more ; for his heart was full, and his tears
dropped hot and heavy on a father's face.

" Ye*s," replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob —
(0 heaven! thou art just !) — "Yes, thou art indeed my
son — my long-denied and ill-used boy — whom the fear of
the world's scorn has tempted me, against all the yearnings
of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to my
bosom — to a father's bosom now, for I know that voice too
well to distrust thee."

In a few months after this interesting disclosure, John
Scott was numbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no
longer Mather) became Laird of Auchincleuch.

Poor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this dis-
covery, which put her betrothed in a position to expect a
higher or genteeler match. But there was no cause of
alarm. Will was true to the back bone, and would as soon
have burnt his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride.
After much pressing for an early day, on the part of the lover,
it was agreed, at last, that the marriage should take place at
" Peat-Casting Time," and that Nancy should, for the last
time, assist at the casting of her mother's peats.

I wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you
an account of the happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy
Morrison, the handsomest couple in the parish of Closeburn.
But it may not be ! These eyes, which are still filled (though
it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and this pen, which
trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the catas-
trophe.

Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I, (for I was now on the
point of leaving school for college,) agreed to have a jump
for the last time, (often had we jumped before,) from a
suitable moss brow.

" My frolicsome days will sune be owre," she cried,
laughing ; " the guidwife of Auchincleuch will hae some-
thing else to do than jump frae the moss-brow ; and, while
my name is Nancy Morrison, I'll hail the dules, or jump
wi' the best o' my auld playmates."

" Weel dune, Nancy!" cried I ; " you are now to be the
wife o' the Laird o' Auchincleuch, when your jumping
days will be at an end, and I am soon to be sent to college,
where the only jump I may get may be from the top of a
pile of old black-letter folios — no half sae guid a point of
advantage as the moss-brow."

" There's the Laird o' Auchincleuch coming," cried Peggy
Chalmers, one of the peat-casters, who was standing aside,
along with several others. " He's nae langer the daft Will
Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the blythest swankie
o' the barn-yard. Siller maks sair changes ; and yet, wha
wad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich
bridegroom, Nancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover ?
Dinna tempt Providence, my hinny ! The Laird winna like
to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe like a daft
giglet, within a week o' her marriage."

" Tout !" cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh ;
" see, he's awa round by the Craw Plantin, and winna see
us — and whar's the harm if he did ? Come now, Tammie,
just ae spring and the last, and I'll wad ye my kame against
your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o' my marriage
slipper."

" Weel dune, Nancy I" cried several of the peat-casters
who, leaning on their spades, stood and looked at us with
pleasure and approbation. The Laird had, as Nancy said
crossed over by what was called the Craw Plantin, and wa:

now out of sight. To make the affair more ludicrous—
for we were all bent on fun — Nancy took out, from among
her high-built locks of auburn hair, her comb — a present
from her lover — and impledged it in the hands of Billy
Watson, along with my cravat, which I had taken off and
handed to the umpire.

" Here is a better moss-brow," cried one at a distance—-
and so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than thft
one we had fixed upon, and the landing place was soft and
elastic. Our practice was, always to jump together, so that
the points of the toes could be measured when both the
competitors' feet were still fixed in the moss. We mounted
the moss-brow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could
scarcely contain herself, for pure, boisterous, laughing glee.
I went off, but the mad girl could not follow, for she was still
holding her sides and laughing immoderately, I asked net
what she laughed at. She could not tell. She was under
the influence of one of those extraordinary cachinations that
sometimes convulse our diaphragms without our being able
to tell why, and certainly without our being able to put a
stop to them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her
glee shone bright in her eye. I took my position again.
" Now!" cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the
soft and spungy moss. I stood with my feet in the ground,
that the umpire might come and mark the distance. A
loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and, dread-
ful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground,
with the blood pouring out at her mouth in a large stream.
She had burst a blood vessel. The fit of laughing which
preceded her effort to leap, had, in all likelihood, dis-
tended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to the un-
happy result.

The loud scream had attracted the notice of the bride-
groom, who came running from the back of the Craw Plant-
in. The sight appalled and stupified him. He cried for
explanation, and ran forward to his dead or dying bride, in
wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation, but
none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy
the unhappy man ; but, though we could not speak intelli-
gibly, we could act, and several of us lifted her up. This
step sealed her fate. The change in her position produced
another stream of blood. She opened her eyes once, and
fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed
them, and for ever.

I saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld
her head, fainted before he proceeded twenty yards, and I was
obliged to take his place. I was almost as unfit for the task as
himself — for I reproached myself as the cause of her death. I
have lived long. Will the image of that procession ever pass
from my mind ? The blood-stained moss-ground — the
bleeding body — the trailing clothes — the unbound locks,
are all before me. I can proceed no further. Would that
I could stop the current of my thoughts as easily as that of
this feathered chronicler of sorrow ! But — >

' ' There is a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart ;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear

But it consumes my heart."

I have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still
remains a bachelor, and that, on every visit I make to
Dumfriesshire, I take my dinner, solus cum solo, at Auchin-
jcleugh, and that many tears are annually shed, over a
snug bottle, for poor Nancy.

WILSON'S

fral, arra&ttfonarg, anti

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SPORTSMAN OF OUTFIELDHAUGH.

THE old property of Eyrymount — belonging to a sept of
the Graemes that had at a former period emigrated to that
locality, not far from the Borders of Scotland, and possessed,
it the time we speak of, by Hugo Graeme, a man somewhat
advanced in years — was (for it has latterly been broken down
into small portions) one of the finest small possessions of a
commoner that could be seen in the fairest part of Scotland.
Compact, and divided into two portions— one of the richest
arable soil, and another, where the mansion-house stood, of
planted ground, adorned by green trees andflowering shrubs —
it was just that kind of property which, filling the purse
and pleasing the eye, a man of sense and a lover of nature
would choose to occupy and draw the rents of. The proprie-
tor of this fine retreat — Hugo, of the fourth generation of
these Graemes — was the very worst kind of man that could
have been placed upon such an estate ; for he held that kind
of middle station between the exclusive great and the not ex-
clusive, which, producing discontentment with what is :n
one's power, and generating an ambition seldom realized,
neutralizes all the advantages of independence, and changes
the gifts of Providence into gilded evils. The property was
too small to enable him to cope with those whom he wished
to associate with, while it was too extensive to admit of
its proprietor being classed with many of the neighbouring
lairds. Yet his pride struggled with the physical impos-
sibilities with which the limited nature of Eyrymount
surrounded him ; and his life for many years had been occu-
pied by a series of efforts to make up, by art and diplomacy,
what could not be wrung from his patrimonial inheritance.
His wife, Madam Graeme — as she was styled by the neigh-
bours, from her possession of a pride equal to, if not trans-
cending that of her husband — was the daughter of a rich
banker, who, after her marriage, lost his wealth, and, of
course, the charm which procured for him the enviable title
of father-in-law to Hugo Graeme of Eyrymount, the fourth
lineal heir of the southern sept of the Graemes. The pride
;vhich had been generated in the bosom of the young lady
by expectation, was not relinquished with her hope of sue-
ceeding to a fortune that had taken to itself " the wings 'of
the morning." Bringing in this way no riches to her hus-
band, she did not leave behind her the evils which generally
attend them and often survive them ; and the hundred
thousand pounds she expected to succeed to, though now
in the pockets of other people, and feeding a pride of a
more legitimate kind in the bosoms of the possessors,
founded that kind of claim to honour which a ragged heir
of a thousand acres which have been out of his family for
fifty years, thinks he has a right to assume, from the mere
circumstance of his grandfather having been the laird. The
pride of the master and mistress of Eyrymount, strong in
the original stems, was strengthened, but not, like the
forest crab-apple, improved, by the mutual ingrafture of
connubial sympathy ; and they strained and pulled together
in their efforts to stretch the income of Eyrymount into
the means of supporting a state to which it was inadequate.
An only child — a female, of considerable pretensions to
beauty, simple and humble and highly interesting in her
146. VOL. Ill

manners, and called, after hei mother, Dione, a title of which
Madam Graeme was very proud — added considerably to the
pride of the haughty couple. They expected " to turn her
to account," and had already fixed their eyes on an old
rich nabob, called Benjamin Rice, who had taken up his
residence at Pansey Lodge, in the neighbourhood, as a very
suitable and easy kind of person, who would likely have no
objection to enter without much struggle into the matri-
monial noose. They never thought of consulting Dione
on the subject ; for, though they did not dispute that she had
" some interest" in the affair, they took for granted that, as
one of the family, she was solicitous for the enhancement of
its fortunes, and would at once sell herself for the good of
the Graemes of Eyrymount. The nabob was not averse, at
least in the first instance, to partake of the fine dinners,
served up as a costly kind of bait at Eyrymount House.
The dyspepsia, which, along with his rupees, he had caught
in India, made him nice in the selection of his food and
wine; and no cost was spared by the fortune-hunting Amphy-
trions, to procure for him whatever might please his palate.
Neither had the nabob any disinclination to feast his eyes on
the fair face of Dione, who received his looks and attentions
very much in the way that children do that emetic Indian
shrub, called ipecacuanha. The tyranny of her proud
mother, however, prevented her from shewing symptoms of
displeasure, when she felt herself subjected to his scrutiny ;
and, as yet, no hint had been given that he was selected as
the man who was to make her " happy for life."

Next to the getting off of the fair Dione in a carriage and
four, and repairing his fortunes with the fortune of her
husband, Hugo Graeme had long sighed for getting back
the merk-land of Outfieldhaugh, formerly a part of Eyry-
mount, and very foolishly, as he thought, given off from the
estate, by his grandfather, Murdoch Graeme, to a favourite
friend, at a small yearly feu of only a pound sterling. This pro-
perty was now a very pretty place ; having been, by the first
feuar, embellished by plantations and fanciful shrubs, which,
in the course of time, had grown up and covered the high
parts with an umbrageous clothing of variegated hues, which
glittered in the setting sun with a splendour which could
too well be seen from the windows of Eyrymount. The
envied place had been taken from the main estate in the
most awkward and provoking manner possible ; for, in place
of being, what its name implied, an outfield, it lay in the
very bosom of Eyrymount, and was composed of the best
land of the property, besides enjoying the finest prospect on
any part of the estate. Beyond all, it was for ever in the ejre
of the gazer from the casements of the old house ; and the
original feeling of regret was embittered by a daily accession
of displeasure, as strangers at Eyrymount pointed out to
the laird the beautiful spot, and asked whether it formed
part of the old domain.

The fault committed by Murdoch Graeme, had been at-
tempted to be cured by Hector Graeme, the father of Hugo
who did everything in his power to prevail upon the pro-
prietor of Outfieldhaugh to dispose of it again to him,
whereby the integration of the old estate wou*d be effected,
while another property could easily be procured to the satis-
faction of the seller, who had no family feelings or prejudices
to gratify, by clinging to his possession. These efforts

330

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

however, had proved vain ; for the proprietor of Outfield-
haugh was just as fond of his merk-land as Grame Avas of
his larger possessions ; and did not hesitate to get angry, as
he was well entitled to do, when solicited to part with his
property, to gratify a family pride he despised, because,
perhaps, he had no family of his own of which he could
be otherwise than ashamed. The wish which had actuated
Hector Gra3me through life was transmitted to his son on
his deathbed ; particular directions having been given in
his will that his heir should be upon the watch, night and
day, to pounce upon Outfieldhaugh, and reincorporate it
with the main estate, and a hint added, that there was no
occasion for being over scrupulous as to the mode by which
that great object should be accomplished. This hint was
only the advice which Hector himself had followed.

" Honesty has nothing to do with the getting back of
what should never have been given away," said the dying
man to Hugo, who sat by his bedside after the clergyman
had departed. " I have examined all the rights, charters,
infeftments, retours, and what not, and held them up to
the light, to see if I conld detect what the lawyers call
' erasures ;' but, though I never could see daylight through
them, your quicker eyes may be more • successful. There's
a clause in them, binding the heirs of Outfieldhaugh to
lend the charters to us as the superiors. I forced a loan
of the title-deeds upon that clause, and had a good fire in
my library, which I looked at often, and then at the charter

again, and then at the fire again ; but — but — but" And

with these words on his tongue, old Hector Graeme, who
was called the honest laird of Eyrymount, expired.

The recommendation of old Hector was not lost upon
Hugo, who recollected, particularly, the hint about the li-
brary fire ; but a slight legal education he had received in
his youth taught him that, as the charters had been regis-
tered at Edinburgh, the library fire could not aid him in
getting back Outfieldhaugh. After he became satisfied of
this, but not before, he "disdained," as he said, " to reacquire
the property in the manner recommended by old Hector,
who knew nothing about the act 1617; besides, how could he
get the titles, without an obligation to redeliver them
' within a reasonable time and under a suitable penalty ?' "
He resolved upon another plan ; but whether it was less dis-
honest than the speedy mode recommended by old Hector,
and affected to be despised by him, may be safely left to
the judgment of the world. This much may be said for
Hector's project — that he had the merit of philosophizing ;
for, though the qualities of phlogiston had already been
pretty well ascertained, the effects of its application to the
rights of another person's property had not often been ex-
amined, except by the anti-philosophical fifteen who sit in the
Parliament House of Edinburgh, and who foolishly allowed
themselves to be led by musty acts of parliament and old
precedents. The mode adopted by Hugo, again, was purely
empirical, and, besides, suggested to him by a change hav-
ing taken place in the proprietorship of Outfieldhaugh.

Some time previous to our historical era, the proprietor
of the envied property died, without children and without
any settlement. His heir-at-law was a poor hind, called
Nashon Heatherton — a name given to him by his father,
who believed that a Scripture appellation, taken ad apertu-
ram bibliorum, or chance opening of the Bible, would be
attended with luck — a belief well justified by the result.
Nashon had got little or no education, and, though a remark-
ably good-looking, stalwarth countryman, was accounted shy,
if not simple — aa idea, however, derived -merely from his
appearance, which denoted no great mental vigour, though
the truth was, that he had more wit than his neighbours,
being only " shy of using it," and having a perverse plea-
sure in leading people astray, while he enjoyed the unpro-
fitable errors that were continually made, in imputing to
him a facility of being imposed upon. The intelligence

that the hind, Nashon Heatherton, had succeeded to Out-
fieldhaugh, produced, apparently, greatly more effect upon
the public, who were not* to benefit by it to the extent of
a farthing, than upon the " fortunate youth" himself; who,
when the attorney told him of his luck, replied, with a smile,
that " he had nae faith' in lawyers, an' wad be cautious in
takin possession o' an estate, till he was satisfied he was
the true heir." Nashon had no intention of being very
difficult to be satisfied on the point of right ; but some who
did not xmderstand the vein of his humour, said he was an
idiot who could not distinguish good from evil.

When Nashon Heatherton took possession of Outfield-
haugh— a step he adopted without the necessity of the appli-
cation of force, contrary to the ideas entertained by his
neighbours — he was waited upon by his superior, Hugo
Graeme, who went for the express purpose of taking the
dimensions and properties of the new proprietor, with a view
to his ulterior schemes, which he had been remodelling
from the instant he heard of the devolution of the envied
right on an obscure, illiterate, and simple hind.

" I am come, sir," said Hugo, as he entered the hall of
Outfieldhaugh, and accosted Nashon, who was sitting in
the finely furnished apartment, occupied in " glowrin frae
him" — " I am come to wish you joy of a possession which
has come to you without expectation ; and, therefore, must
yield you pleasure, greater and of a different kind, than
acquisitions of property generally do, even to heirs."

" I haena felt it yet," replied Nashon, looking up to
Graeme with a curious, arch expression of face. " The auld
hoosekeeper, Esther Maclean, has been cryin a' day aboot
the beauties o' the place ; but she says there's nae conies
on't, sae there can be little amusement either for me or
Birsey, wha sits growlin there because he's no at his auld
quarters at Conybarns."

" We have more foxes than conies in these quarters,'
replied Grame, struck with the cause of complaint stated in
limine by the new proprietor.

<f I suppose sae," replied Nashon, eyeing Grame express-
ively ; " there's nae want o' them in ony quarter ; but
they're easily got quit o' ; for, whar there's nae Jules, there's
nae foxes. We had nane o' them at Conybarns."

" You seem to have a grateful recollection of that place,"
said Graeme. " Old Langbane, the laird of it, would, I
understand, sell it. You should purchase it."

" I hae aneugh o' property," replied Nashon, " when I
hae Outfieldhaugh — maybe owre muckle."

" You do not understand me," said Gr&me. " I mean,
that you should sell Outfieldhaugh, and buy Conybarns
with the price."

" That wadna be ill to do," said Nashon ; " for they say
the laird of Eyrymount has a keen ee to the place ; but
dinna ye think I should just be doin wi't ? There's
owre muckle wood on't, but that can be easily mended
wi' a guid axe ; an' I can get a breed o' conies frae Cony-
barns."

" Useful improvements," said Graeme, staring at Nashon,
and unable to ascertain whether he was an idiot or a wag.

" I hae ither changes i' my head," replied Nashon, " if I
could be at the trouble o' bringin them oot. I like a stir
aboot a place. There's some fine waterfa's i' the dell yon-
der ; but what's a waterfa withoot a mill ? Folk rin after
thae things, an' seem to like the noise o' the dashin waters ;
but hoo muckle mair noise wad there be if there was a
guid birlin spinnin mill alangside o' them ? Besides, there's
some life aboot a mill — the swearin o' the men spinners, the
screighin o' the hizzies, their love-makins i' the green
haughs, their penny waddins i' the ale-houses. It's thae
things that mak a country place lichtsome. I wonder that
Eyrymount hasna mair sense than to keep his place sae
quiet. I'll shew him an example."

" That may not suit his taste," replied Graeme, at a loss

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

,331

what to say; for he had some suspicions that Nashon
knew him, and the introduction of himself was now made
a difficult matter.

"It's impossible, sir," said Nashon: "would it no suit
his taste to mak siller ? They say he spends weel ; and,
while his waters are rinnin to the sea, withoot ca'in a single
mill, he may rin dry — unless, indeed, Benjamin Rice mar-
ries his bonny dochter, Dione."

" I am thinking Esther Maclean has been giving you the
news of the place," said Grasme, trying to smile, but unable
to get beyond a grin.

" Ou ay, the cratur has been trying to amuse me," said
Naslion ; " for she couldna bear, she said, to see me sittin
i' the middle o' this big ha', lookin frae me. an' thinkin o'
the huntin o' the conies o' Conybarns ; but when the
mills are set again we'll hae something to keep us oot o'
longer. I may, peradventure, think too o' some tanneries.
It's a pity to lose sae muckle oak bark ; an' Jamie
Skinner, the leather-merchant o' Peebles, says he could sell
as mony skins as I could gie him."

" But you forget, Mr lleatherton," said Graeme, begin-
ning to lose temper, " that you have only a servitude to a
limited extent over the Well Burn, and will not be entitled
to destroy the purity of the water."

" But water doesna rin up the brae, sir," replied Nashon.
'f I'm below Eyrymount, an' my neebors below me winna
object. But, after a', I think o' mony things I never
execute."

" I hope you will think twice about these things," said
Graeme. " I merely called in, as a neighbour, to wish you
'oy. Good morning !"

"Guid mornin, sir !" replied Nashon, without rising from
his chair. " That's Eyrymount himsel," he continued,
after Graeme had departed, "if Esther's account o' him be
correct. Isna that the laird o' Eyrymount, Esther ?" said
lie to Esther Maclean, as she entered.

"The very man," replied Esther. " Was he wantin to
buy Outfieldhaugh frae ye ?"

" Ou ay," replied Nashon ; " but I tauld him I intended
to build spinnin mills an' tanneries on' the Well Burn."

" An' do ye intend to spoil yer estate in that way ?"
said Esther.

" It's no very likely," replied Nashon. " The value o'
Outfieldhaugh lies in its woods an' waterfa's ; an', though I
pretended to like the whin muirs o' Conybarns better, it
was only to bring the laird oot, an' see if ye were richt in
what ye tauld me. I think ye're nearly as wise as mysel."
While Nashon and Esther Maclean were thus comparing
notes, Hugo Graeme returned to Eyrymount, and had a
conference with his lady on the character of the new pro-
prietor of Outfieldhaugh.

" What kind of a boor have you found this new proprie-
tor of your old estate?" said the lady, as he entered. "Is
he simple enough to sell, or wild enough to dissipate it by
incurring debt ?"

" He is either the most arch rogue or the greatest fool
I ever met in my life," replied Graeme. " I intended to
introduce myself after the first salutation ; but the idiot
began talking about Eyrymount as if he thought I were
some one else, and said such things as entirely prevented
me from making the declaration. His housekeeper is old
Esther Maclean, whom he has retained ; and she, who bears
us no good feeling, has told him everything he requires to
know to put him on his guard against us — that is, I mean,
if he has wit enough to take advantage of it ; for I doubt
yet if he is not a born idiot. He talked about hunting
conies, and building spinning-mills on the Well Burn, like a
madman ; yet, if he knew whom he was talking to, there
was a sense in his madness which I do not much like-"

"Did you ask him if he would sell Outfieldhaugh.''"
inquired the lady.

"I did," answered Graeme ; "and his answer was a,
question — ' Dinna ye think I should just be doin wi't r'
What could you make of a person who could return such
an answer to a plain question ?"

"But you say he talked of hunting," said the ladv.
" That is a very good way, as you well know, of getting
into debt."

" Yes, but it depends on the game," replied Graeme —
" cony-hunting, with an old hairy terrier he calls Birsey,
will not ruin him, even if he found any conies on Outfield-
haugh, which I defy him to do."

" But the spirit of Nimrod," replied the lady, " extends
to every kind of game, whether real statutory game, conies,
or pigeons. Give him a smack of reynard, and the despic.
able cony will soon be left to its burrow."

" If he has wit enough to distinguish between a fox and
a rabbit," said Graeme — " which, however, I doubt. Every
effort must, no doubt, be tried. Outfieldhaugh must be got,
by force or stealth. It must be Dione's dowry, when she
is wedded to Benjamin Rice ; and when he dies, as he
must soon do, if one can have any faith ,in his gamboge-
coloured skin, we shall have our patrimonial estate entire ;
and his large fortune to dash away with in successful com-
petition with Sir James Featherstone of Cockairney, Sir
George Becket of Turfhall, and all our sporting neighbours,
who at present outstrip us in the race of pleasure, and
excel us in the court of fashion. The question is — How is
this to be accomplished ? ' He that dares well fares well,' as
the saying is ; and I think we cannot do better than try to
inoculate this piece of untenanted spiritless flesh with a
little of the blood of Nimrod and Pollux. Hunting and
horse-racing comprehend within themselves all sorts of ex-
pensive dissipation. If he joins our Soho Club, he will
require money. I will lend it, if I should borrow it for
that purpose ; and I know the nature of an adjudication."

"The project sounds well," said the lady; "but I must
see the cony-hunter myself, for women are better judges of
men, than men are of their neighbours. I will give him a
dinner, if you will give him a present of a hunter. We
must blow the soap-bell before it flies and bursts."

" If you are to make a belle of him, you must indeed pre-
pare plenty of soap," said Graeme, smiling at the cleverness
of a vile pun. " But, without a joke, he is a good-looking
boor, were he washed. A cake of soap with your invitation
card might be of some importance. It is the alpha of the edu-
cation of a gentleman, and we must begin at the beginning."
This conversation was overheard by the gentle Dione, who
was, in no small degree, interested in the affair propounded
by her parents. She now knew, for certain, their intentions
in regard to the disposal of her hand ; and, while her
judgment disapproved of their scheme, which was unfair
towards the simple-minded (so she termed him) Heatherton,
and cruel to herself, her feelings rebelled against a union with
the gamboge- coloured old Indian, who had already ogled hei
into a sympathetic jaundice. The process of her thoughts was
extremely favourable to calling forth a strong interest in
favour of Nashon, whom she had never seen, but whom she
figured to herself as a plain, good-looking man, (as indeed he
was,) whose simplicity was about to be taken advantage of,
for her sake, by his property being unjustly wrested from
him and given to her, as a dowry, on the occasion of her
marriage with a man she hated. Simple as she herself was,
she felt inclined to counteract these ambitious and unjusti-
fiable intentions ; and, if Nashon Heatherton had been known
to her, and in any way worthy of her affections, she would
(so she theorised) have thrown herself into the arms of the
new laird of Outfieldhaugh, saved him from ruin, and her-
self from an interminable grief.

The intensity of her feelings, called up by what she had
overheard, and inflamed by the workings of her own mind,
drove her into the surrounding woods of Eyrymount where

332

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

f.lic might weep unobserved ; and the excited state of her
fee-lings sought relief by the natural means of speak-
ing out her thoughts. She was overheard by Naslmn.
They spoke. An explanation took place, and that sympathy
which follows often on mutual knowledge, led the way to
love. He learned from her her own unhappy position, and
the intentions of her father to ruin him, for the purpose of
securing Outfieldhaugh. Proceeding homewards, he thus
monologized : —

" An sac Eyrymount wants to ride me to the devil,
that he may get Outfieldhaugh ! 1 To maun be ignorant
o' tho siller I got as the auld laird's executor, besides
the estate as his heir. Let him remain in his igno-
rance, an' we'll see wha will ride longest an' wha'll keep
strongest. My neck has as mony liths in't as Eyrymount's
craig; an', if he canna get Outfieldhaugh except by stretchin
mine, I'll no' get his dochtcr Dione without gien his a
thraw. Can onybody blame me ? Am I no fechtin him wi'
his ain weapons ? and, besides, arc we no strugglin for the
same object — the junction o' the twa estates that hae been
owre lang separated ?"

Continuing his train of thought farther than we think it
necessary to record it, Nashon arrived at Outfieldhaugh
House, at the door of which he met Esther Maclean, Avho
presented to him a face so full of expression, that the ideas
scorned to be struggling in all parts of it to get down to her
mouth for vent. It was clear that something pertaining to
the Eyrymount family had occurred during the few hours'
absence of her master ; for few other subjects could have
produced such a mute loquacity as her moving wrinkles
exhibited as Nashon entered.

" Your threat to big spinnin mills on the Well Burn hns
biggit your respectability, guid sir," she exclaimed. " Read
that, and then tak a turn into the stable."

Esther handed to Nashon, as she spoke, a letter from
Madame Grrome, finely perfumed, the sight and smell of
which produced a convulsion in the old simple frame of
mind of the quondam hind, which he did not care about
exhibiting even to Esther. The application of his large
coarse fingers to the single drop of scented green wax with
which the note was sealed, produced a mysterious kind of
feeling of awe without a visible cause, which was entirely
new to him ; and tho great array of Cupids and roses stamped
on the margin of the fine hot-pressed paper, completed the
effect of this mute Ariel from the regions of high life. The
note was as follows : —

" Mr and Mrs Grtcme of Eyrymount present their re-
spects to Mr Nashon Ileatherton, and request the honour
of his company to dinner at Eyrymount, on Wednesday
sc'enight, the 15th instant, at five o' clock."

On the other side of the note were a few lines, in another
and a bolder hand, to this effect : —

" Mr Grueme, who has had already the honour of con-
versing with Mr Hentherton, presumes upon his character
of feudal superior of Outfieldhnugh, to mark the introduction
of a new vassal by some trifling consideration ; and therefore,
nnd as the Soho Club meet for the purpose of paying their
respects to Mr Reynard to-morrow at the Shaking Bridge
over the Hazel Burn, he requests Mr Heatherton's accept-
ance of his favourite hunter, Springall, and the pleasure of
his company at the chnse."

" My auld mnister wnd hae tauld me what was in the
letter," said Esther, turning up her eyes expressively into the
face of Nashon.

" An' v^r new ane winna refuse ye the pleasure,"
answered Nashon. " The bruw folk o' Eyrymount have in-
vited me to dinner on Wednesday se'enight, and sent me a
hunter, for the chnse, the morn, at the Shakin Bridge."
" An' will ye gang ?" said Esther.
" Surely," replied Nashon — " ordinary politeness seems to
demand it ; but what will I do for a huntin dress ?"

" Ycr ancestor's scarlet coat winna disgrace his heir,'
replied Esther. " It's up i' the leather kist, i' the blue par-
lour yonder ; an' I'll muk oot to get a len' o' a pair o' boots
Frae Squire Hawthorn's butler, wha'll never let on the thing
to his maister."

Nashon smiled at the idea of borrowing a pair of boots ;
but pride had not yet in him attained that height which en-
ables its votaries to look down with contempt on the obliga-
tion of a loan, and he chose to sport Squire Hawthorn's boots
and Squire Graeme's horse in the meantime, to gratify an
object which would require still greater sacrifices. Next day,
accordingly, he appeared at the rendezvous, where he in a
short time was accosted by Eyrymount, who was accompanied
by the proprietor of the under part of the neophyte's habili-
ments.

" You will find this sport better than cony-hunting, Mr
Ileatherton," said Eyrymount, laughing.

" Ou ay," replied Nashon ; " but I fear it's mair expensive
I may become owre fond o't, an' the rents o' Outfieldhaugh
may scarcely haud agen the expense."

" You cannot complain yet," said Eyrymount, looking
significantly at Springall.

" I should think not," said Squire Hawthorn, looking as
significantly at the boots.

" No," replied Nashon, drawing up his leg a little, but
immediately throwing it down again, with a jerk of the
stirrup — " but I ken my weakness. I had nae less than nine
terriers, ance, at Conybarns — a perfect pack ; an' I wadna
wonder to see me hae as mony fox-hounds — ay, an' maybe as
mony hunters. I fear, Eyrymount, I maun lay a' that cost
at your door."

" There's no sound on earth like the tally-ho !" cried
Eyrymount, delighted with Nashon's views, which seemed
to coincide so well with his own. " You will be a true son
of Nimrod, an' may carry away the gree of the hunting-cup
of the southern sept of the Grtcmes."

" I like baith the drinkin-horn an' the tootin-horn," said
Nashon ; " an' will empty the ane an' fill the other as
weel's ony fox-hunter i' the kingdom."

" Bravo ! I have not been mistaken in you," cried Graeme.

" The grey lark flees highest o' a' the singin tribe," replied
Nashon, " an' the bright gooldie the lowest. Ye canna
ken a man frae his coat, ony mair than ye can tell whether
a cat is a guid hunter frae the colour o' her skin."

" You are right," said Squire Hawthorn ; " neither can
you know a man from his boots."

" If they're borrowed, ye can say that he's a cautious,
savin chiel wha wears them," replied Nashon ; " but, if
they're bought an' no paid," (with a significant look at Haw-
thorn, who was known to be deep in debt,) "ye can say he's
an ass. Is the horn no sounded yet ? I'm keen to set aft'.
My bluid's getting warm wi' the thought o' the throw an"
an' the hark on. Ho ! he ! ho ! tantivy ! tantivy !"

And Nashon cracked his whip as he thus emulated, by
a ioud bellow, the spirit of the huntsman.

The chase began, and was continued with great spirit.
Reynard displayed his usual tact ; and the hounds, Squirt1
Hawthorn's pack, were in fine blood. Nashon's tally-ho
was heard ringing loudest in the woods ; his horse was the
finest of the company ; and he scoured on like the wind,
heedless of the laugh that was attempted to be raised
against him by Hawthorn, who had told several of his
friends, that Springall, which once belonged to him, knew
the touch of the heel of his old boots, and, if they did not
take care, would carry the clown in at the death, and shame
the whole Soho Club. This sportive sally was successful
in more ways than one; for, Avhile its humour was well cal-
culated in 'produce cachination, there was a ratiocination
in it which was calculated to produce a lugubrious reac-
tion; for, to the surprise and discomfiture of all the hunts-
men, Nashon Heathertoi' was the only individual who was

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

333

in at the death — a feat, doubtless, as much owing to the
speed of Springall as to the dauntlessness of the rider, who,
however, displayed great power of horsemanship and sur-
prising presence of mind, on grounds of great difficulty and
danger.

In the evening the club enjoyed the hospitality of the
proprietor of Nashon's underfittings ; and, although the
borrower had, during the day, suffered the gibes of the
young foxhunter, he did not think that either these or the
relation in which that part of his dress stood to the
lender, disqualified him from eating his meat or drinking
his wine. That he would be dubbed the butt of the com-
pany, he knew before he went; but he felt himself under
the obligations of a peculiar humour, that ruled him with
a power paramount to other considerations; and, in the
present instance, that humour was itself subservient to
objects of ambition of high import — motives that led him
to overlook the temporary buzz of an innocuous raillery on
the part of men who were fast going to a destruction which
he was taking active means to avoid. He, therefore, put
on the appearance of enjoying the fox-hunters' peculiar
mode of draining the cup of pleasure to the dregs, laughed,
sang, drank, and even essayed, on one or two occasions, a
sturdy oath. His strength, robust health, and unsubdued
constitution, enabled him to cope with the strongest of
these Tricongii in their own element, wine ; and when the
great cup was brought in — which was generally when all
parties were in that intermediate state between sense and
forgetfulness which demanded in charity a total finisher, to
send them to entire oblivion and rest — he was as sober as a
judge. A quarter of an hour after the emptying of that
fearful goblet, the fox-hunters around him, who had been
high in their humour of drawing " rises" out of him, accord-
ing to " the slang of aquatic sportsmen, or " baiting the
badger," in their more appropriate dialect, fell at his feet,
singing as they descended, "with a hey ho chevy!" and all
groaning in rough chorus. He alone sat immoveable, laugh-
ing at the sleeping pack who had been, during the night,
following him with their deep mouths, and baying forth
their humour. Where were they now ? Their game had
become their whipper-in, though they were unconscious of
his whip. He took Graeme's hand as he slept, and shook
it as that of his father-in-law to be, and wished him joy of
Outfieldhaugh. He then mounted Springall, and sought
his home and his bed.

On the day appointed, Nashon, dressed and scented
in great style, dined at Eyrymount. There were present
several fox-hunters, Benjamin Rice, and others of the
neighbours — none of all whom came up to Nashon in
brilliancy or smell. They seemed all delighted and amused
with the grotesque figure, excepting Dione, who stared at
nini in sorrow and disappointment ; for she could not con-
ceive how so sudden a transformation from simplicity to
gaudy glitter and bad taste, could have taken place on one
who appeared to be gifted with prudence and good sense.
She feared the hunter had turned his brain, and that her
father and mother were in a fair way of seeing their scheme
accomplished. Her pride was, moreover, hurt, when she
saw the man whom she had begun to love, made a laugh-
ing-stock to a whole company, including the hated Benja-
min Rice, who was himself exquisitely fitted for filling the
high office so unaccountably occupied by the plain and
nmtious Nashon llcatherton. Nor was she better pleased
with his conversation, which, while his old Scotch was
retained by necessity, was directed towards subjects which
she thought he despised — the interminable hunt, the turf,
tin- dog-kennel, and the wassail chamber.

" I am told, Mr Ileathcrton," said Benjamin Rice, " that
you were in at the death at the last hunt, and that you
stood the great cup better than any one of the company."

" Ou ay," replied Nashon — " I hae turned a great sports-

man, thanks to Eyrymount ! an' no a bad hand at the bottle.
I'm at present on terms wi' Gib Cowper, the horse-jockey,
for twa famous hunters, as guid, I think, as Springall.
They're baith by Bellerophon, real bluids; but he asks tn;i
bunder guineas for them, an' that I think is owre muckle ;
I offered him a bunder and ninety."

" Where are they to be seen ?" inquired Grreme.

" I dinna ken," replied Nashon. " He brought them to
Outfieldhaugh ; but wadna leave them in my stable, till
we bargained. He said he would ca' again. I hae been
offered Lord Luxmore's pack, too, at four bunder guineas,
fifty head, that is about four guineas a dog — owre muckle
dinna ye think, Eyrymount ?"

" I don't think so," said Eyrymount — " I'll run halves
with you."

" I'll consider o't," said Nashon. " His Lordship said he
wad see me again. We'll better no seem owre anxious —
we may mak a better bargain, especially as they say he
needs money."

" Is it possible," whispered Hawthorn to Eyrymount,
" that the borrower of my old boots has any serious inten-
tion of keeping a pack ?"

" I do not doubt it," replied Eyrymount.

" Poor simpleton !" said Dione to herself, with a sigh, as
she looked on the ruddy cheeks and open countenance of
her grotesquely dressed lover — " has he fallen into the very
snare I unwittingly pointed out to him ?"

" You are the most spirited laird that Outfieldhaugh ever
saw, Mr Heatherton," said Madame Graeme. " It is a great
pleasure to have a neighbour like you alongside of us."

" An' I'm as wcel pleased wi' the high-spirited Eyry-
mount," said Nashon — " we'll dash awa nicely thegitber."

" Saw you ever such a fool, Miss Graeme ?" whispered
Benjamin. " He will soon dash through Outfieldhaugh.
If he had ploughed the salt seas, and endured the blisters of
a tropical sun for his money, as I have done, he would
know better how to guide it."

Dione intuitively turned her face from the orange, coloured
Indian, towards the rose-coloured youth, and sighed.

" Are you to be present at the steeple-chase, on the 19th?"
said Eyrymount to Nashon.

" Surely," replied he, readily. " I canna resist a steeple-
chase. I ken nae sport like that mixture o' rinnin, louping,
manoeuvring, jockeyin, tumblin, an' brak-neck feats o'
horsemanship. It's right glorious. If life had naething
better to offer us, as a reward, for a' we are doomed to suffer
between the cradle and the grave, a guid steeple-chase wad
be aneugh to mak us a' wish to live our lives owre again.
What are the rules? — will Springall be admitted?"

" No ; he is beyond the age," replied Granne ; " but
Hawthorn will sell ye Copperbottom."

" Weel, I'll ca' the morn an' see Copper," said Nashon.
" If I buy, I'll ride him mysel — I'll trust nae jockey. If I
win, I'll gie the gentlemen o' the Soho Club a chance foi
the prize again, by anither steeple-chase, the day after the
next county races, whereat, by-the-by, I wad like to hae a
sweat for the gowd cup. as a guid way o' bringin a person
into notice, especially whar aiie is his ain jockey, as I \v;i<l
be, wearin a green silk jacket as livery. Hoo gran' it wad
be to hear the leddies cryin, ' Success to the green !' — bettin
their gowd pins on his comin up in guid time to the winnin
post, and then shakin hands wi' the victor, wi' a thousand
gratulations on his success !"

" Do my ears deceive me," said Dione to herself, "as my
eyes seemed to do when I saw the piebald character of his
dress ? How powerful is pride, when it is stimulated in the
hidden recesses of the mind of the peasant, by the magic
wand of fortune ! Alas ! alas ! my choice is now between a
foolish beggar and a heartless nabob."

The effect produced by Nashon on the whole company
assembled at Eyrymount, was extraordinary. The

334

TALES OF THE LOKUEHS.

and mistress were delighted, with him, and devoted him, in
their imaginations, to a speedy immolation on the altar of
the god of folly ; the members of the Soho Club already
marked him out as a good pigeon, whose tail-feathers would
enable them to fly yet a little longer in the high regions of
fashion ; Dione sighed for a lost lover and ruined simpleton;
and Benjamin Rice counted, in his imagination, his guineas,
and congratulated himself on a gout that prevented him
from engaging in sports that might tend to dissipate them,
along with the remnant of a ruined constitution, which sack,
and sago pudding, and panado, could scarcely support.

Nashon bought Copperbottom, ran him, carried the prize,
and sold him next day for ten pounds of profit ; on which
great occasion he informed his housekeeper, Esther Mac-
lean, that he intended to entertain the whole Soho Club at
Outfieldhaugh — a communication that produced a mixed
feeling of terror and wonder, on the part of the old house-
keeper, which she had no words adequately to express. She
wished him to be genteel, and like the other gentlemen of
the neighbourhood ; but she had heard hints, that he was
getting fast into the vortex of a sportsman's dissipation; and
the intelligence that he was to entertain the " Soho" — equal,
in her estimation, to dining the Cham of Tartary and his
staff — confirmed the report, and filled her with sorrow and
regret. All her efforts to dissuade her master from his
purpose, were unavailing : cards were issued to forty gentle-
men ; the question put by Esther, where he was to find the
necessary service of table apparatus, the wine, the cooks,
and the waiters, required to be answered ; and he was at no
loss for aa answer on a subject he had deeply considered.
Mounting Springall, he hastened away to a town at some
considerable distance, and procured an estimate, from an inn-
keeper, of the expense of his projected entertainment. The
innkeeper undertook to supply everything, with livery
servants, unknown to the company, and keep his engage-
ment a profound secret, for so much a -head. The entertain-
ment went off in great style ; Nashon presided, with all the
manners of a thorough-bred blood sportsman — drank, sang,
and talked of races and steeple-chases, with all the slang and
spirit of the craft. The wine, the plate, the service, the
servants in livery, and all the appurtenances of a great
establishment, apparently belonging to the merry master of
the revels, were of the best kind, and produced universal ad-
miration. The spirit and bounty of Nashon were extolled
to the utmost, and Squire Hawthorn admitted, in a whisper
to Graeme, that the loan of the boots had been amply repaid.
Nashon again drank them all out. The extent of the pota-
tions made no change on the expense, and a folly that was
never to be repeated might be carried with impunity to the
confines of madness.

Next morning, after encountering the lugubrious face of
Esther Maclean, who saw in the hired servants and the
broken dishes and glasses all the worst symptoms of ap-
proaching ruin, Nashon went out to enjoy the refreshing
breezes that swept along the Well Burn ; and, at her beloved
spot, the Monks' Well, he found Dione Graeme, sitting
wrapped in meditation.

" Do I see," said Dione, as he approached her, " the
same individual I met on this spot on a former occasion,
when I thought his unpolished prudence and good sense
would have enabled him to profit by a disclosure I made
without intention ?"

" The very same— Nashon Heatherton," replied he ; " wi'
nae change in him, except it be that he is, if possible, still
niair prudent and far wiser than he was on that eventfu day."

" I know you are a riddle, sir," said Dione — " a charade I
cannot solve. Do not the neighbours say, what I have
partially witnessed, that you are inebriated withthe spirit
of the fox-hunter, and fast riding to ruin, at the nod and
by the example of my father, who, however, is making his
folly subservient to his purpose of ruining you ?"

" A' true, my bonny Dione," replied Nashon. " Nac.-
body can be blamed for sayin what I wish him to think.
They say, and you suppose, that I am ridin to the devil
but will ye believe me when I tell you that I am only
ridin to you ? If you'll tak me as I stand, and marry me in
spite o' your faither an' mither, I'll gie up my mad pranks,
and sit quietly down, as a douce, sensible man, whase
greatest ambition and highest pleasure would be to minister
to the comfort and happiness o' Dione Graeme."

" My father and mother will never consent to that,"
replied Dione. " It was only this morning that rny mother
urged me to receive more kindly, or rather less unkindly,
the addresses of Benjamin Rice ; but how can it be that
your behaving as a fool can ever come in place of the con-
sent of my parents, or procure me for your wife, eveu if I
were favourably affected towards you ?"

" If you will tell me that you love me and will becomt
my wife, provided I get your faither and mither's consent
to our union," replied Nashon, " I will tell you the wisdom
o' my folly, an' explain my riddle — that, in place o' ridin
to the deevil, I am ridin to Dione."

" I must believe the evidence of my senses," replied
Dione. " I have already given you reason to suppose thai
I was well affected towards you; but, if Benjamin Rice has
disgusted me, Nashon Heatherton has terrified me ; and I
must first see an amendment of your conduct before 1
pledge myself to what may be my ruin."

"Time tries whinstanes, Dione," replied Nashon; "an
my folly is no quite sae hardened an' perverse. If ye gang
sae muckle by the evidence o' yer senses, I hae nae ob-
jection to mak them the test o' my conduct, when a' itn
pairts are seen thegither, an' my motives for actin as I
now do can be properly understood. Will ye be kind to
me, Dione, till I prove myself the same prudent Nashon
Heatherton you first thought me ?"

" Most certainly," replied Dione ; " for it is my wish to
respect you and"

" Love you," said Nashon, making out her sentence.
" Dione Graeme, if ye wad only repeat, wi' thae bonny lips,
the words I hae now uttered, I wad soon change the wish
into the thing wished for ; an', what is mair, I wad mak
your love the handmaiden o' your respect, whilk, being an
act o' the judgment, whase laws are eternal, is mair neces-
sary to the happiness o' a marriage than the love o' the
fickle thing they ca' the heart, whilk beats fast and slow wi'
the changes o' wind and weather."

f ' Would that my respect were already equal to my — my —
feeling for you !" said Dione, blushing.

" The mair appropriate word ye hae now blinked," said
Nashon, " wad hae been mair pleasant to me ; but I maun
be content wi' your thoughts till I shew mysel mair worthy
o' their bein revealed. The morn's the race-day, an' my
steeple-chase prize is to be run for the day after. Ye may
smile as ye like, but the laugh may yet be on the other
side. Ye see how grave I can be when I speak o' serious
things. I understand your faither has bought a fine new
tandem for the occasion. We gae forward merrily — dashin
awa in fine style. Dinna we, Dione ?"

" And where it is to end I know not," replied she. " My
father, I understand, is merely an extravagant man, who
will soon see the end of his fortune ; for I have heard he
has been already applying to Mr Langbanc, the rich laird
of Conybarns, for a loan of money ; bur, as for you, there
is a mystery about your extravagance which I cannot pene-
trate— though this much I can easily understand, that he
who trusts himself upon a stormy sea in an open boat, may
miscalculate the power of his own resources in saving him
from a watery grave."

Nashon laughed at the fears of Dione, and, before they
parted, assumed the boldness of sealing the protestations of
Lis affection, and the sincerity of his views of ultimate

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

prudence and amendment, by a kiss, which, though it nro
duced a blush extending from bandeau to tucker, wa&, i
the end, forgiven with such a sweetness of expression anc
so modest a demeanour, that a stoic could not have resistec
the impulse which stimulated the thief to a repetition of tin
petty larceny.

Nashon's subsequent proceedings were of the same cha
racter as those already detailed. He attended the races in
a borrowed tandem, without hinting anything concerning
the proprietorship of what was presumed to be his own
His generosity in being the contributor of the prize of th<
next steeple-chase was lauded by all those who got a chanc
for winning it. Dinners followed at Eyrymount and other
places ; and Nashon, following in the wake of Graeme
though sometimes leading the way, appeared to be fas
hurrying to the gulf which awaits the victims of passions,
Whose gratification holds no proportion to the means o
supporting a dissolute life. A year passed on, during
which a great deal of money was spent by Graeme, and nol
a little by Nashon, whose resources from the funds he go
as executor of the proprietor of Outfieldhaugh were, however,
more than sufficient for a much greater expenditure. In the
midst of this dissipation he was repeatedly attempted to be
reclaimed by those who wished him well, and, among others,
his old master, Langbane, had many interviews with him,
with a view of producing some salutary sense of the im-
prudence of his conduct.

<r I hae warned you," said the old miser, " an' my warnins
are nae beetles' sangs i' the auld wa's o' spaein wives. But
the truth o' our proverbs works out in spite o' a' the warnins
o' Solomon ; an' I think we hae ane that says, ' Set a
beggar on horseback an' he'll ride to the deevil.' I hae
seen that verified often i' my day ; and anither o' the same
kind — 'Keek comes aye down again, however high it flees' —
is just as pithy and pertinent to your case. I never mak an
apology for giein a man a guid advice ; because, if he taks
the poker an' drives me out o' his house, he just verifies
another guid auld sayin — ' He that comes atween a fule an'
his ruin, is like him wha interferes atween a man an' his
wife — he's sure o' the reddin straik.' "

" But ye needna be afraid o' my poker, guid friend,"
replied Nashon, laughing. " I tak a' ye hae said in guid
part, though I fear ye wadna come saeweel affatEyrymount."
" I believe if I wad lend him the three thousand pounds
he wants me to advance to him," said Langbane, with a
smile, " I might say onything I liked to him."

" An' will ye lend him the money ?" inquired Nashon,
anxiously.

" I wad rather borrow yours, were it for nae ither object
than to keep it for ye," replied Langbane.

" A joke has sometimes mair wisdom in't than the pulpit
oration o' a greetin minister," replied Nashon. " I hae nae
great confidence i' my power o' keepin thegither the five
thousand pounds I hae yet o' my executry : an', if Eyry-
mount wad tak the loan frae me, I would tak a mortgage
owre Eyrymount as my security ; but I hae guid reason to
think he winna borrow frae his ain vassal. What wad ye
think o' my giein you the siller, an' lettin you lend it to
him in your name, you giein me an assignation to the debt ?"
" As your friend, Nashon, an' wishin to keep thegither
siller whase wings are fast fledgin,-, I hae nae objection to
your plan," replied Langbane. " I hae only ae remark to
mak — "Wha is to draw the interest ? for, if I assign the debt
to ye, I canna tak the interest, an* then it will come out
that ye are the creditor."

" Muckle will come and gae afore my interest is due
an' payable," replied Nashon. " I hae every faith in ye.
Here is a check on my banker for three thousand pounds.
.Eyrymount, ye ken, pays the expense o' the lawyers' papers."
" Ye're as weel up to thae things as I am," replied Lang-
bane. " There's only ae thing ye dinna seem to ken."

335

" What is that ?" inquired Nashon.

r< There's a sma commission paid generally to negocia-
tors o lent siller," said the miser. « I'll only charge ye a
half per cent." 3 :

" Weel, ye'll get it," said Nashon, « after ye work for't
ihere s nae commission paid aforehand."

That's true, too," replied Langbane. " Ye'll be a
proud man wi' a bond ower Eyrymount."

And Langbane left Nashon, with the view of going direct
to Eyrymount, to tell him that he was now wfflfwr to lend
him the money he required. The transaction was very soon
finished. Langbane got a mortgage over the property of
Eyrymount, and assigned it over to Nashon, who locked it
past in his coffers, along with the title-deeds of his property
and the documents of his remaining cash.

After Eyrymount got this large sum, he increased still
tarther his expenditure; while Nashon, having, to some
extent, gained his object, shewed indications of a wish to
draw up. Eyrymount noticed this, and appeared displeased
asking Nashon his reason for not joining him in the prose-
cution of his schemes of pleasure. Nashon replied, that
his money was done ; an answer which the other apparently
expected, and with which he seemed delighted.

" I have an overplus of ready cash just now," he said.
" What is the use of money but to purchase with it the plea-
sures which this life holds out in such profusion to those
i who are willing to buy ? Take a couple of thousands from
me, and give me your note of hand for it ; a mere piece
of form, you are aware, as I never would put it to execution,
relying, as I do implicitly, on your honour for repayment."
" What interest wad ye be expectin for't ?" said Nashon.
" Oh, a bagatelle. Say five per cent.," replied the other
" Very weel," said Nashon, who knew that Eyrymount
was paying himself five per cent, for the same money to
Langbane. " I carena though I lighten ye o' the twa
thousand ; but I see nae source o' repayin't, save frae the
flesh an' banes o' Outfieldhaugh."

{t Things will have gone far, and many changes been
effected in us and our friendships, ere that issue could take
place," replied the other, who went to bring the money.

The transaction was instantly closed ; the bill was given
at a day's date, and seized by Eyrymount, as would have
been the titles to Outfieldhaugh, if destined to the library
fire, their hereditary enemy. The same course of life was
pursued by him, and Nashon still kept up, for a time, the
appearance of going through, with all due rapidity, the two
thousand pounds he had thus borrowed from his friend. The
thousand pounds that had been left in Eyrymount's hands,
of the sum he had borrowed from Langbane, was not suffi-
cient to keep him going for any length of time, and appli-
cation was, therefore, made to the same source for two
thousand more. Nashon supplied the cash, which was, in
fact, just the two thousand pounds he had got from Eyry-
mount ; and Langbane's mortgage over the Eyrymount estate
was assigned to him in the same way as the former.

Having waited until he thought a great part of this second
loan was spent, Nashon, who had had, in the meantime,
several meetings with Dione, at the Monks' Well, was in-
formed by her, that her father and mother were now begun
to press the murriage between her and Benjamin Rice so
urgently that she must either consent, or submit to be
treated as a rebel to their authority, and an alien from their
affections and interests.

" You shall never marry Benjamin Rice," said Nashon.
" And whom shall I marry then ?" said the unhappy girl,
who had made her communication to him in tears — ' ' a ruined
spendthrift, who has borrowed two thousand from my father
and thereby placed himself and his property in the power
of one who, as I told you, had originally in his view the
seizure of an old part of his estate ? Where is all your wis-
dom now ? Alas ! how foolish I have been to put any faith

336

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

in the professions of one who is incapable of avoiding a dan-
ger pointed out to his open eyes ! To marry Benjamin Rice
is misery, if not death — to marry you is wretchedness and
shame, besides rebellion against the commands of my par-
ents."

"• Calm yersel, Dione," said Nashon " I shall go in-
stantly and ask your father's consent to our marriage."

" If an objection existed formerly to your procuring that
consent," replied Dione, still weeping, "• think ye that is
removed by your being now in poverty, and my father's
debtor ?"

" We'll lat alane thae subtle questions, my Dione," said
Nashon, " an' try our mettle. Your father is my friend.
Do we no ride thegither, drink thegither, an' laugh the-
gither ? Why should he refuse me his dochter, if he gives
me his confidence ? He never rides, drinks, or laughs wi'
Benjamin Rice. I'll awa to him, an' try him. A faint
heart never wan sae fair a lady as Dione Graeme."

Nashon accordingly opened the subject to Eyrymount.
" I hae been thinkin o' takin a wife," he began, " to see
an' reclaim me, an' keep me frae ruin, and Outfieldhaugh
fare the hammer."

" Whom have you in contemplation?" said Eyrymount,
fearfully apprehensive that he was after a rich heiress,
whose fortune would relieve him and his property from diffi-
culties.

" I hae been thinkin o' twa or three," replied Nashon.
" Conybarns' dochter, ye ken, will be a rich cratur, though
she's neither a lily o' the valley nor a rose o' Sharon."

" She has the king's evil," rejoined Eyrymount, whose ob-
jection to this match was apparent.

" I thank ye for the intelligence," replied Nashon. " What
say ye to yer ain Dione, provided I could get her con-
sent ?"

" My Dione !" cried Eyrymount, in surprise and pride.
" Allow me to tell you, Mr Nashon Heatherton, that I do not
intend to marry my daughter to my vassal and my debtor ;
I am surprised at the confidence that enabled you to pro-
pose so ridiculous a project, though I am glad the secret
has come out. It has been for this that you have been dash-
ing forth so brilliantly ; expecting, no doubt, that, by cover-
ing the coarse metal of your original uneducated condition
by the tinsel of fashion, you could produce an impression
upon the heart of my daughter. Thus you repay me for my
kindness in taking you out, introducing you to society
and even filling your pocket with my money, which, by the
by, I will now thank you to repay."

" I canna pay you," replied Nashon ; " the money is
gane — at least I hae nane o't. Ye maun just wait till .
save it oot o' the rents o' my property."

"I will do no such thing," said Eyrymount, who
thought it was now time to quarrel ; " I must have eithe:
a mortgage, or an adjudication, which is just a legal mort
gage. Take your choice."

" I winna meddle wi't," replied Nashon ; "• a wilfu man
maun hae his way. I think ye should just gie me Dione
an' that wad settle a'; an', besides, it wad bring the twf
properties thegither."

" A man that cannot refrain from impertinence, shoul
not trust himself in other people's houses," cried the in
censed Eyrymount. " I request your instant departure."

" You'll maybe ca' on me some day sune," said Nashon
quietly, as he took his hat ; " I will be happy to see you a
Outfieldhaugh."

" You will soon see my deputy, at any rate," said Eyry
mount.

" I am much obliged to ye," said Nashon, and retiree
with a very low bow.

Eyrymount, who thought his proceedings ripe, instructe
his agent to raise an action of adjudication against Nashon
whereby Outfieldhaugh might be forcibly mortgaged to him

n security of nis two thousand pounds. The agent pro-
eeded with all speed to comply with the commands of his
lent; and, on a subsequent day, a messenger-at-arms called
t Outfieldhaugh.. accompanied by his witnesses, for the
urpose of serving, as it is termed, or, in plainer language,
f giving a copy of the summons to the debtor.

el This is what the lawyers ca' an adjudication ?" said
Nashon.

" Yes," replied the messenger, gruffly.

" Can ae messenger serve twa maisters ?" said Nashon.

" Yes," replied the man.

" Weel," said Nashon, fc will ye tak a step owre to Eyry-
nount, an' deliver to the laird o' that property this requi-
ition."

" Certainly, sir," replied the messenger, taking the
>aper and reading it. " I see it is a requisition to pay you
-5000, contained in two bonds, by Eyrymount, to Murdoch
jangbane, and assigned by him to you. It should properly
e intimated by a notary, and one of my concurrents has
hat qualification, though now greatly reduced."

" See that it's legally dune," said Nashon. " My agent,
rilbert Shortpage, drew it up, an' I warrant it correct."

" It shall be done instantly," said the messenger, who
lied up the notary's name in the paper, and departed to
execute his new and unexpected commission.

At the time the messenger rapped at the gate of Eyry..
mount, Graeme and his lady were occupied in talking about
he prospect they now had of seizing upon Outfieldhaugh.

" About this time the ambitious Nashon will be receiving
my summons of adjudication," said Graeme.

A much more suitable gift, from his superior, than
[)ione Graeme," said Madam.

What is this, sir ?" said Graeme to the messenger, who
lad just opened the door of the apartment.

" A requisition, your Honour," replied the messenger.

" From whom ?" said Graeme.

" Nashon Heatherton," replied the messenger.

" A requisition for delay, I fancy," said Graeme. " Ha !
ha ! ha ! He is too late. The law must take its course.
Go tell him I cannot comply with it."

" Would not your Honour better read it ?" said the mes-
senger.

" Oh, the usual cant, I presume," said Graeme, opening
the paper and glancing over it. — " What is this ?" he added,
letting go the paper, and falling back on his chair.

"What is the matter?" cried Madam, taking up the
document, and flying for a smelling-bottle at the same
time.

"• It is, madam," said the messenger, while she applied
the salts to her husband's nose, " a requisition for payment
of £5000, due to Mr Heatherton, as assignee of Mr Lang-
bane."

" Heaven have mercy on us !" cried she, while she con-
tinued her efforts to restore her husband.

The messenger and his men departed, and left Eyrymount
and his wife to the full anguish of their critical situation.

The news of this proceeding got wind, and reached the
ears of Benjamin Rice, who thought it prudent to suspend
his visits to Eyrymount. Graeme had now the prospect of
losing not only Outfieldhaugh, but his own patrimonial
estate. What could he do but give Dione to Nashon?
This he did. The couple were married ; the two properties
were afterwards conjoined ; and the sportsman of Outfield-
haugh distanced all his competitors

TALES

WILSON'S

STralrttfonavj), antr Emas

OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE DREAM.

THE war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has
been a long one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of
superstition against reason. How different the spirit, tactics,
and results of the two ! Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burn-
.ng -stake, and an increase of the strength of the persecuted,
on the one side ; on the other, argument, persuasion, and, at
the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost total extinction
of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark
recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to
suffer extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the
world for two thousand years, and were put an end to by the
Christian faith, which left untouched the power of witches,
ghosts, and dreams. The first of these, notwithstanding all
the probation of King James, have perished ; the second,
maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth ; but
the third, which has had a thousand supporters between
Artemant Milesius and Lord Monboddo, still retain some
authority in the world. We support them not ; but we sub-
scribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in reference
to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit Maldonat —
there are many things appertaining to dreams, which have
troubled and perplexed strong spirits more than they have been
ever willing to confess. We arenow to add one instance more
to those of which the same author has said the world is
almost already full — but we again protest against the infer-
ence of our own belief in oneirology.

About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and J
Glasgow, there stand, at the distance of about a quarter of a '
mile from the highway, and on the left as you approach the
latter place, the remains of what was once a small farm-house.
It is now long since the last inhabitant left this little humble
domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but
little attention from the passer by, were they not so delight-
fully and conspicuously situated. They stand on the very
extremity and summit of a beautiful green promontory, of
considerable height, that projects into and overlooks a lovely
strath, skirted with wood, and through which winds one of
the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The
situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them
with an interest vvhich would by no means attach to them
were they situated in a less romantic locality.

Of the farm-house of which we speak there now remain
only one of the gables, and a portion of the side- walls ; but, if
your curiosity tempt you to further investigation, you may
still trace the limits of the little hail-yard which lay im-
mediately behind it ; and, struggling for an obscure existence
with the rude bramble which has now usurped the place of the
homely but civilized vegetation of the little garden, may be
seen a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former
cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all butobliter-
ated, and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green
mound — once itswall — that forfns the boundary of its limits.

There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any par-
ticular interest ; for we have rarely any sympathy for the
humble and the lowly. In the case of such vestiges of by-
gone days as those alluded to, it is only the ruined castle, the
half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of mighty masonry,
147- VOL. III.

that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to work —
not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage
of the obscure peasant, not the little rudely -cultivated patch
that formed his Eden. These are by far too commonplace
and too undignified to attract a moment's notice, or to excite
a moment's interest. Yet the cottage has its tale as well as
the castle — and we will presently shew that it is so.

About the year 1 760, the farm-house of -which we have
spoken was inhabited by John. Edmonstone — a man ot
excellent character, and who, humble as his station was,
had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and
economy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of
money, besides a good deal of property invested in stock,
such as cattle, grain, farming implements, &c. The former — •
namely, the cash — according to the good old custom of Scot-
land, amongst John's class, was stowed into a stocking-
foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the
wall, known only to the members of the family. But, ignoble
and odd as this depository may seem, it yet contained no
inconsiderable treasure, and' that not a whit the worse or
less valuable for the homeliness of its abode. In one end
of the stocking aforesaid, was a bulbous swelling, as large
as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store ot
bright and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps,
250. These being at once confined and secured by a string
tightly tied round the stocking, produced the appear-
ance above alluded to. Next followed, but in the same
general depository — namely, the stocking — a huge conglo-
meration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount
of about £50 more, which were also secured by a tight
ligature — thus giving, if there had been but another link or
two to the stocking, something the appearance of a string
of sausages.

At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a
widower, with two daughters — the one, at this time, about
twenty, the other some four or five years older. They
were both unmarried, and lived with their father. Jane
Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty
and interesting looking girl. Her sister Mary did not
possess such, striking personal advantages ; but this was
amply compensated by a pleasant manner and a kind and
gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived
happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead
They led a sober, industrious, and pious life ; for, duly as
evening came round, the " big ha' Bible" was placed on the
kitchen table, and, by the light of » clean and well-trimmed
lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful fire, John read aloud
to his daughters from the sacred page. But the best regu-
lated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless
and abandoned — John was suddenly seized with a mortal
illness, of which he shortly died, leaving his two daughters
sole and equal inheritors of his wealth. The death of their
father was a grievous calamity to the two unprotected girls ;
for they were without relations — at least, there were none
near them — though certainly not without those who wished
them well, as they were universally respected in their own
neighbourhood, both on their father's account and their
own. Yet did they feel, on the death of their only parent,
a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with the world,
which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstand-

338

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

ing the considerable resources which their father's industry
and economy had secured to them. Nor did their local
situation tend to lessen the former feeling ; for it was a
solitary one — the house in which they lived being at a con-
siderable distance from any other habitation. The neigh-
bourhood in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one.
It was filled with coal-miners and coal-carters — the latter,
in particular, a brutal, ruffian race ; and to all these the
poor solitary women believed it to be well known, as it
certainly was to a great many of them, that their father had
left them money, and that it was in the house ; and thus,
to their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling
being broken into, and themselves robbed and murdered.

It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and
utter helplessness — for they found they could not conduct
the business of the farm — and about a fortnight after the
death of their father, that Jane, the youngest of the sisters,
suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from a troubled
sleep, and sprung from her bed in an agony of terror and
affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes —

" O Mary, Mary ! we'll stay here no longer. Not another
clay — not another day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon,
and consult with our uncle about selling oft", and removing
into the city. We will not stay here, Mary, to be robbed
and murdered."

" I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane,"
replied her sister, now more than ever alarmed by the latter's
wild looks and unusual excitement; "but what is the
meaning of this sudden outcry ?"

" It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane,
in great agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes ; " but
I'll go in this day to Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And,
without vouchsafing any explanation of the cause of this
sudden determination, so peremptorily expressed, she
shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few
minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of
from four to five miles.

The uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occa-
sion, was a brother of her mother's, named James Davidson.
He was in poor circumstances, and had been so all his life ;
and, whether from this or some other cause, he had never
stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a
hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any
of that patient forbearance of disposition and manner which
gives to age so pleasing and amiable a character. Davidson,
as we have said, was poor. He had never been able to im-
prove his circumstances, or to rise above the condition of a
labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor
did his eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world.
He inherited his father's disposition, which was an unhappy
one ; was idly inclined ; and, somehow or other, could never
gain the good-will of any one. Neither Jane nor Mary
Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle ; their
father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they
know much about his circumstances or character ; the same
cause preventing all intercourse between the families. They,
in short, only knew of their uncle's existence by his fre-
quent applications to their father for the loan of money,
which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle, and
the nearest relation they had, and, in their present circum-
stances, they naturally looked on him as the fittest person
to consult regarding their affairs, their wishes, and inten-
tions. These Jane now laid before the old man, who
received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity of
manner ; telling him, at the same time, that she and her
sister were resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss,
to sell off at Braehead and take up their residence in Glas-
gow ; " for," said she, " we are day and night in danger of
our lives yonder ; and besides, we are wholly unable to con-
duct our father's business — buying and selling cattle — or to
manage the affairs of the farm. These are things that we

cannot do — and neither need we, as we have enough to live
upon without it. All that we want is safety."

The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time
before he made any reply. At length he said —

" Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How
much did your father leave, Jane ? — in money, I mean ?"
" Somewhere about three hundred pounds," replied his niece.

11 A good round sum," said the old man, " to be all in
hard money. And is it all past you — all in the house ?"

"All."

Davidson thought for a moment. Then — " Well, I'll tell
you what it is, Jane," he said : " I do not at all approve of
your leaving Braehead. If you do so, you throw yourselves
at once upon your little capital, which will not last you
very long in a town like this, where all would be going out
and nothing coming in — and where would you be when it
was exhausted ? Now, your byres and farm in the country
are a certain source of emolument to you ; and, by keeping
these, you will make a decent maintenance of it, without
encroaching on the funds left you by your father. My
advice to you then, Jane, is by all means to remain where
you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work ;
and, as the distance is not great, I will come out myself,
once or twice a-week, and assist you with both my personal
services and advice."

" Thank you, uncle !" replied his niece ; " but we really
cannot remain at Braehead, on any account. I would not
remain in it another week for any consideration."

" No ! what for, Jane ? What are you afraid of?" said
her uncle.

" Of being murdered," replied Jane ; " and I have but
too good reason to fear it."

" Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you ? What
ridiculous fears are these ?"

"But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle,"
replied his niece, with emphasis.

" Reason ! — what reason can you have, but your own idle
and absurd fears ?"

" Yet, I have though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously,
but appearing somewhat confused and embarrassed.

" What do you mean, girl ?" said her uncle, fixing his
keen grey eye upon her countenance, scrutinizingly ; for ho
observed her embarrassment. " What is this reason of
yours for so unreasonable a fear ?"

" Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied
Jane : " I had a most frightful dream last night. I dreamt
that a soldier — a tall, fierce-looking man — broke into our
house in the middle of the night, with a drawn bayonet in
his hand ; that he murdered my sister before my eyes — I
saw her blood streaming on the floor ; and that, having
done this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and wa?
about to plunge his bayonet into my heart when I awoke
It was a horrible dream, uncle, and has made such an im-
pression on me — it was so fearfully true — that I cannot
think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful
dream that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not
told my sister of it ; for it would put her distracted."

Jane's uncle listened patiently, but Avith a smile of con-
temptuous incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece ;
and, when she had done —

"Pho, pho ! what stuff!" he said — "what absurd stuff!
How can you be so silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let
alone putting any faith in such nonsense as this ?"

" I cannot help it," interrupted Jane.

" Well, well — perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson ;
" but it is not the less ridiculous for that ; and, if it were
known, it would certainly get you laughed at. Pay no at-
tention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of it ; but
return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations,
and I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on."
To this, he added the advice which he had alreadv given

THE DREAM

vou. HI. P. ssa

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

339

and in nearly the same words ; but in vain. Nothing could
drive the girl from her purpose — from her determination to
'«ave Braehead. Finding this —

" Well, then/' said her uncle, " at least remain \viiere you
;»re for a day or t\vo, when I will come out and assist you in
your arrangements, and in the disposal of your effects — you
cannot manage these matters yourselves."

To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent ; but
repeated her determination to leave the place as soon as
possible, and to come in to Glasgow to reside.

On this understanding, then — viz., that Jane and her sister
should remain at Braehead until their uncle came out — the
former returned home, when she told Mary of all that had
passed, excepting what related to her dream, to which, for
the reason which she herself assigned, she carefully avoided
all allusion. By a very strange coincidence, however, hut,
though strange, by no means unprecedented, the considerate
caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon
after rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the
elder sister awoke in an exactly similar state of perturbation
with that in which Mary had arisen on that preceding, ex-
claiming—

" O Jane, Jane ! I have had a frightful dream."

" What was it, Mary ?" inquired her sister, in great alarm ;
recollecting her own frightful vision.

" O Jane !" replied the former, still trembling with terror,
" I dreamt that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in
at our back window, and murdered us both. O God ! it was
horrible ! I think I yet see you on the floor there, struggling
with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his hand,
with which he had already stabbed you in several places."

''Gracious God protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to
the floor in a state of alarm exceeding even that of her
sister. " This is dreadful ! — Oh, these are fearful warnings !
It can no longer be doubted — it can no longer be doubted.
O Mary, Mary ! I dreamt precisely the same thing last night ;
and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me
in to our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream ; but he
treated it with contempt. He will surely now acknowledge
that it is a warning not to be slighted."

We need not interrupt our narrative at this point by
stopping to describe further Jane's feelings on hearing of
Ihis strange and appalling repetition of her own frightful
vision. These feelings were dreadful. She grew pale as
death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their first terrors
subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to what
they should do to avoid the horrible fate with which they
now had no doubt they were threatened ; and finally resolved
that, if theiruncle did not appearonthat day,orindeed whether
he appeared or not, that they would, on the next, remove to
Glasgow ; taking with them all their ready money and
whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and
leave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring
farmer, who had been an intimate friend of their father's.
They, in short, resolved that, in any event, they would remain
only one other night at Braehead.

Before proceeding further with our story, we would beg
the reader to observe, that the circumstances we are now
relating occurred in the year 1760, in the month of January.
It was a winter of great severity, and remarkable for the
amazing quantity of snow that fell ; but one of the wildest
days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month
above named. It was the same day in which the scene
between the two sisters which we have just related occurred.

The storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings,
which had been raging all day, increased as night approached ;
and, when darkness had fallen upon the earth, it became
tremendous. The trees around the little cottage of Braehead
bent before the wind like willow wands ; and loud and
wild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the
storm amongst the leafless branches. The snow, too, was

whirling all around, m immense dense masses, and over-
whelming every object whose height they surpassed in
their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful
night, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could
possibly have survived. Dreadful night it was to the lonely
traveller, who was seeking a distant refuge, and whose
urgencies required that he should do battle with the storm ;
and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of the
shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible
night of the 21st of January 1760.

While the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely
cottage of Braehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are
blocking up door and window, what are its two solitary
inmates about? There they are, the two unprotected women-
all their previous fears increased tenfold by the awful sounds
without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness
deepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we
say, sitting by their fire, pale and trembling, one on each
side of the chimney — for they are afraid to go to bed-
listening in silent awe to the raging of the storm.

It was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged
words on this dreary night, and then it was little more than
a brief exclamation or remark, excited by some sudden and
violent gust that swept over their little cottage, or roared
amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the general tenor
of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They,
therefore, continued by the fire, where they sat almost with-
out moving for many hours.

It was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the
storm was at its height, when the fears of the two lonely
sisters were suddenly wrought up to a horrible climax, by a
loud rapping at the door, which, again, was instantly fol-
lowed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In
the first moment of alarm, the women leapt from their seats
and flew to different corners of the apartment, screaming
hideously, having no doubt that their fatal dream was now
about to be realized. From this terror, however, they were
gradually in some measure relieved by the supplicatory
language and tones of the person seeking admittance.

" For God's sake, open the door !" he said — for it was the
voice of a man — " or I must perish. I have already travelled
fifteen miles in the storm, and am now so benumbed and ex-
hausted that I cannot move another step. Open the door,
I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity in you, and
give me shelter till daylight."

Somewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in
them so little of a hostile character, and to which circum-
stances gave so truthful a complexion, Jane, the younger
of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a low voice, what they
should do. " Shall we admit him ?" she said ; " for it really
seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to re-
fuse him shelter in such a night as this. We could never for-
give ourselves, Mary, if the poor man should perish in the
storm."

" It is true, Jane," replied her sister — " we could not
indeed. We will admit him, and trust the result to God.
He will not allow a deed of charity and benevolence to be
turned into an instrument of crime." Saying this, Mary
approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar, put
one other query ere she undid it. '•' Are you," she said,
addressing the person without — ''are you really in the
situation you represent yourself to be ?"

" Before God, I am !" replied the voice from without,
emphatically. " Admit me, for heaven's sake ! You have
nothing to fear from me."

In the next instant, the Taolt was withdrawn, the door
flew open, and in walked a man in the garb of a soldier.
The brass plate on his cap glittered in the light of the lamp
held by the younger sister, who stood at some distance
from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore
peeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and

34-0

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

eimultaneous shriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically
into the interior of the house, told of this horrid realization
of their dreams. The soldier, in the meantime, walked
into the kitchen ; but any one who should at this instant
have marked his countenance, would have seen very little
in it to indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed
good reason to fear he had come. lie was, in truth, a
young, handsome, and singularly good-lookingjman, with a
face expressive of great good-nature and mildness of dis-
position. Little regarding these indications of a character
so different from that which occupied their minds, the
sisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild
shrieks, and in the most piteous appeals for mercy. On
their hcnt knees they implored it ; offering all they had, if
their lives were only spared. The soldier, benumbed and
exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own suffer-
ings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a
most extraordinary and unaccountable scene — the terrified
sisters on their knees, imploring his mercy.

" Good women," he at length said, " what is the mean-
ing of this ? What are you afraid of? Is there anything
in my appearance so dreadful as to excite this extraordinary
alarm. If there be, I never knew it before ; and am very
sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no harm
— none in the world. God forbid I should ! I am but too
grateful to you for having opened your door to me ; and
but too happy to get near this cheerful fire."

Again somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions,
so different from what they had expected, the sisters ceased
their frantic cries for mercy ; and, though yet far from
being reconciled to their tremendous visiter, they became a
little more composed, when the soldier, perceiving the
effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated
assurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and cf
the perfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit.
These asseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and
conciliatory tone, eventually induced the sisters not only to
look with less alarm on their unwelcome guest, but to
desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will not say,
however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure
benevolence. We will not say that it was not done more
with a view to disarm their still dreaded visiter of any
hostile intentions he might entertain towards them, than
from any feeling of compassion. Be this as it may, how-
ever, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered great-
coat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses,
and sat him down before the fire.

" Now, my good friends," he said, after having warmed
himself a little, and having still further abated the terrors
of the sisters by more kind and gentle words, " will you be
so good as tell me why you were so much afraid of me
when I first entered the house ? — for I cannot understand it
—seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your
own accord, and must, therefore, have been prepared to see
somebody or other. Was it my cap and red coat that
frightened you so ? Come, tell me now, candidly."

The sisters looked to each other with a faint smile,
and an air of embarrassment ; but with an expression of
inquiry which said as plainly as an unspoken expression
could say it — " Shall we tell him ?"

Their guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly
that there was something to explain — something that they
did not altogether like to avow. Observing this —

" Come, now, out with it!" he said, laughingly, "and,. de-
pend upon it, I shall not be the least offended, however
uncomplimentary it may be to myself."

" Well, then," said the younger sister, " I will tell you.
Both my sister and I dreamt, very lately, that a soldier
came into this house here, as you have done, and murdered
us. We both dreamt the same dream at different times,
and without its being previously known to either of us.

Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we
should have been so much alarmed at your appearance."

" Odd enough," said the soldier, laughing, " but, in my
opinion, very particular nonsense. Had you dreamt of a
soldier coming to court you, it would have been a much
more likely thing, and you would have had a better chance
of seeing it realized, I should think, than that he should
have come to murder you."

" But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and
at such an hour ?" inquired the elder sister, whose fears, as
well as those of Jane, were by no means entirely allayed by
this familiarity. " Where were you going to, and whence
came you ?"

" Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress," replied the
soldier, " when I have filled this pipe." And he proceeded to
the operation of which he spoke. When he had done, and
had expirated a whiff or two — " Now, I'll tell you," he said,
" how it happens that I am out in such an infernal night as
this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong
to the 50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have
been absent on furlough, seeing my poor old mother, in the
south country, where she resides. I had not seen her, poor
soul ! for several years ; and, as she was unwilling to part with
me again, I was obliged to stay with her to the last moment
of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was
anxious to get on to quarters before it was out ; for we have
got a devil of a fellow in our commanding officer — and this
is the reason why I was so late upon the road in such a
night. I wanted to save my distance, and avoid a bother-
ing. But it wouldn't do — I was obliged to knock under.

" I found poor mother," went on the soldier, ' ' in much
better circumstances than I expected to find her ; for my
father left her in great poverty and with a large family ;
but a rather curious occurrence gave her a lift in the world
in her own humble way, about a couple of years ago, of
which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a
very pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence,
saying that it was the divine interference in her behalf.
However this may be, it was a very simple affair, and all
natural enough.

" In mother's neighbourhood, you see — she lives in a
remote parish in the south of Scotland — there resides a
fellow of the name of Tweedie — Tom Tweedie. Torn is a
cattle- dealer to business, and is well to pass in the world — a
lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely
fond of a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the
expense of his neighbours. Amongst those who suffer
most severely by his waggery, is a good-natured man of the
name of Brydon — Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives close
by him, that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well,
on this person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has
played innumerable tricks ; all, indeed, of a harmless cha-
racter, but some of them sufficiently annoying. Either for
want of opportunity, or, what is more likely, from want of
genius, Peter never could accomplish any retaliation — a
circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever of
agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and in-
genuity in the way of practical joking constantly kept him.
At length, however, chance threw in Peter's way what he
considered an excellent opportunity of annoying his mis-
chievous neighbour in turn.

" Passingthe gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty
early, on horseback, (the road he was travelling led close
by it,) Peter saw a huge wooden dish of oat-meal porridge
smoking on the top of the wall of the house-yard. It was
intended for the breakfast of the family, and had been put
out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter,
struck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after
contemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and, hav-
ing previously looked carefully around him to see that
nobody marked his motions, he lifted the dish from its

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

341

place, porridge and all, placed it before him on the saddle,
brought his plaid over it, so as to conceal it, and rode off
rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my
mother's house lies close bythe road on which he had to travel,
and at the distance of about a mile from the place where the
robbery had been committed. Now, it struck Peter that
he could not do better than leave the dish of porridge there,
where he knew there was a houseful of children, who
would clear all out in a twinkling ; but he did not know —
for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her
neighbours — how seasonable would be the supply which he
now proposed to bring them. On that morning, the child-
ren had no breakfast of their own to take. There was not
a morsel in the house to give them. Having made up his
mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made
directly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting,
rapped with the but-end of his whip. My mother came out.

" ' Here,' said Peter, handing down the stolen mess ;
'here's a dish of porridge I have brought for the children's
breakfast."

" ' Porridge !' exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and
at the same time blushing deeply, from a conviction that
her poverty had been detected ; ' how, in all the world,
came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr Brydon ?'

" This was a question which Peter had but little inclina-
tion to answer. He therefore waved it.

" ' Hoot, hoot, guidwife,' he replied, ' what does that
signify? There they are — that's enough — and a capital mess,
I warrant ye, your young anes will find them. So let
them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and meikle guid may't
do them ! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife,
of making a breakfast of your own.'

" My mother having now no doubt that her neighbour
knew of her destitute condition, of which, however, he, in
reality, knew nothing, and that his gift was one of pure bene-
volence, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, thanked
him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave
him full information regarding that she thought he already
knew — her straitened circumstances. Peter made no
remark, at the time, on my mother's confessions of poverty,
and said little or nothing in reply to what she addressed to
him, but rode on his way.

" Well, it happened that, on this very day, my mother
went to Tweedie's house, with some yarn she had been spin-
ning for his wife, who occasionally employed her in that
way, when the latter, amongst other things, informed her
of the robbery of the porridge ; adding, however, that she
cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of
her dish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind.

" * If they would only bring me the basin back/ she said,
* they are welcome, whoever took it, to its contents.'

" The blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained
for some moments in silent confusion ; but at length said —
her face as red as crimson—

" ' Mrs Tweedie, your dish is safe — it is in my house ; but
the porridge is gone.'

" ' In your house, Mrs Johnston !' — (that is my mother's
name) — ' my basin in your house ! How does that hap-
pen?' replied Mrs Tweedie, with a look of surprise, and
something like displeasure.

"My mother detailed the circumstances as already related;
and, thinking herself compelled to acknowledge her poverty
as an apology for having made use of the porridge, she fairly
stated her condition ; saying, amongst other things, that,
when it came, she had not a morsel in the house.

" Mrs Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her
before of her situation, and concluded by promising that
neither she nor her children should ever again want
a meal as long as she had one to give them; and she
instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could
carry home. Her husband, who was present on this occa-

sion, enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and gave the chosen
victim of his own wit, Brydon, great credit for his trick. He
further expressed himself highly pleased that the latter had
taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she
stood so much in need of them. To make a long story
short," added the soldier, "both Tweedie and Brydon,
who were good kind-hearted men, from this moment that
my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made known
to them, took her under their especial patronage.

" On the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal
and potatoes as lasted her a month ; each of them took
one of my brothers into their service; their wives gave
her as much spinning as she could execute-; and a compli-
ment of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes
of another, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever
since by the two benevolent jokers. From that day to this,
old mother has never been in want ; and when speaking of
the occurrence, says, that the day on which Peter Brydon
brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the
luckiest in her life."

Here the soldier finished his story and his pipe together.
Both the matter of his little tale and his manner of telling
it tended considerably to calm the apprehensions of his host-
esses, and to disabuse them, in spite of their dream, of much
of the unfavourable opinion they had entertained of his in-
tentions. Still, however, they felt by no means secure, and
would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the
whole of the money in the house, to have been quit of
him. Nor were the fears that yet remained lessened by
their having discovered, which they had not done for some
time after he had entered, that he wore his bayonet by his
side. On this formidable weapon the two poo? women
looked with inexpressible horror ; having a strong feeling
of apprehension that it was the dreadful instrument by
which their destruction was to be accomplished and their
dream fulfilled. Now, too, the sisters detected the fellow
occasionally glancing around the house, with a most suspi-
cious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now,
also, began to put questions that greatly alarmed them —
such as, Was there nobody in the house but themselves ?
How far distant was the nearest house ? and guessing,
with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that their
father (they had informed him of his death) had left them
a good round sum in some corner or other ? In short, his
behaviour altogether began again to grow extremely suspi-
cious ; and, perceiving this, the sisters' fears returned with
all their original force.

In the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating,
had increased ; .the dreary, rushing sound of the trees
became fiercer and louder, and the fitful gusts of wind
more frequent and furious. It was now about one o'clock
of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which
had induced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the
fire — namely, to disarm him, by kindness, of any evil de-
sign he might entertain towards them — the sisters now
offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly accepted
the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily.
When he had done, one of the sisters told him that there
was a spare bed in a closet to which she pointed, and that
he might go to it if he chose. With this offer he also
gladly closed, and immediately retired.

The sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus
disposed of — thinking it something like a sign of harmless
intention on his part — determined to sit themselves by the
fire throughout the remainder of the night. They were,
then, thus sitting, and it might be about one hour after the
soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness to
every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise, as if of some
one forcing the door. At first the poor horrified women
thought it was some unusual sound produced bythe storms
but, on listening again, there was no doubt of the appalling

342

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

fact. They heard distinctly the working of an iron instru-
ment, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The
wretched women leaped from their seats, and again their
wild shrieks were heard rising above the noise of the tem-
pest without. Awakened by their alarming cries — for he
had been fast asleep — the soldier started from his bed.
calling out, as he hurried on his clothes —

" What the devil is the matter now ? By heaven ! you
are all mad."

" Oh, you know but too well what is the matter," replied
one of the sisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate
with excessive terror. " You know but too well Avhat is
the matter. These are some of the other murderers of your
gang forcing open the door. O God ! in mercy receive
our souls !"

" My gang forcing the door ! What the devil do you
mean?" replied the soldier, emerging from the closet. Then,
ifter an instant — " By heaven ! it is so far true. There is
some one breaking in, sure enough."

Saying this, he drew his bayonet and ran to the door ;
but, ere he gained it, it was forced open, and two men were
in the act of entering, one behind the other. On seeing
the soldier, the foremost presented a pistol to his head, and
drew the trigger — but a click of the lock was the only re-
sult. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's
bayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when
he who was behind him immediately fled. The soldier
pursued him ; but, after running several hundred yards,
gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to the house,
where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he
had stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright,
had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen.

On entering the house — " Well, my good women," said
the soldier, <f are you now satisfied of the sincerity of my inten-
tions towards you ? Why, I think I have saved your lives,
in place of taking them."

"You have ! you have !" exclaimed both the sisters at once.
" And, oh, how thankful are we to God, who alone could have
sent you here to protect us on this dreadful night !"

" It certainly was as well for you that I was here," replied
the soldier, modestly; "but have you any idea of who the
villains could be ?"

" None in the least," said the younger sister ; " but this
neighbourhood is filled with bad characters, and we have no
doubt it was some of them — for all of them know, we believe,
that our father left us a little money. We have always
dreaded this."

" In that case," said the soldier, " I would advise you to
leave this directly, and go to some place of greater safety."

The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant
to do so, and that they intended going to Glasgow to
reside.

What subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between
the sisters and their gallant protector, we will detail as
briefly as we can, in order to get at a more interesting part
of our story. Haying again secured the door, the soldier
sat with his hostesses by the fire till daylight, when, having
previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he prepared to
take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house,
the youngest sister approached him, and, after again ex-
pressing her gratitude for the protection he had afforded
them, slipped ten guineas into his hand. The soldier
looked at the glittering coins for an instant, with a signifi-
cant smile, then, laying them down on a table that stood by —

" Not a farthing," he said — " not a farthing shall I take.
I consider myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you
afforded me. I was bound to protect you while under
your roof. By admitting me last night you saved my life —
and I have saved yours ; so accounts are clear between us.
This, at any rate," he added, laughingly, "will balance them."
And, soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck,

and, ere she was aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen
hearty kisses.

This theft committed, he ran out of the door ; but was
almost immediately after called back again, by the elder
sister, who, on his return, informed him, that, as Jane in-
tended going into Glasgow on that day, to inform her uncle
of what had happened, and to make arrangements for their
instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister
could not do better than avail herself of his company to the
city, and go in with him just now. " Besides," she said,
" I should like you to see our uncle, if you would be so good
as take a step that length with Jane, as you will be able to
give a better account of the occurrences of last night than
she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of
our leaving this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he
would believe our story at all, of being attacked last night,
unless you were to corroborate it. He would think it was
just an invention to get away, as he knows of our anxiety
to leave this."

The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not
attempt to conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane,
who, as we have already said, was a very pretty girl, for a
companion into the city.

In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey,
and in a very few more she and the young soldier were
upon, the road ; and, as the storm had now entirely sub-
sided, they got on without much difficulty. What con-
versation passed between them on this occasion, we know
not, and can only conjecture from the result, which will be
shortly laid before the reader. That it was of a description,
however, very agreeable to both, there can be no doubt.

In the meantime, our business is to follow them into
Glasgow, where they arrived in little more than a couple of
hours.

On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was
greatly disappointed, and rather surprised, to learn from one
of her little cousins — its mother being out of the way at the
moment — that Davidson was not at home, that he had gone
to the country on the previous night, and had not yet
returned.

' Then, where's your brother ?" inquired Jane.
' He's gone to the country, too," said the child.
' Is he with your father ?"
' Yes."

' Did he go last night also ?"
' Yes."

' And don't you know where they went to, or when they
will be home ?"

The child could not tell.

At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at
once accounted for the absence of her husband and son, bj
saying that they had got work at a distance of some miles
from the town, naming the place, and that she expected
them home that day, although she could not say when.

As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain,
Jane resolved on going straight home again, and proposing
to her sister that they should, for that night at any rate,
remove, taking all their money along with them, to the
friend of their father's already alluded to, whose name was
Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took.

Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall
return to their uncle's house in Glasgow ; and, by doing so,
we shall find there some things of a very extraordinary
character occurring. Shortly after Jane had left her uncle's,
that person came home ; but he returned a very different
man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect,
though somewhat stricken in years, when he went away,
he noAV appeared, as he approached his own house, ghastly
pale, bent nearly double, and dreadfully weak and exhausted.
He seemed, in short, to be suffering from some excruciating
pain. He could hardly get along without supporting himself

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

343

by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own
house, he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one,
'urther than telling his wife that he was very ill — that he
nad received a severe injury by falling down amongst some
loose timber, a pointed piece of. which, he said, had pene-
trated his chest. His wife, in great alarm, proposed sending
instantly for a surgeon ; but this the wounded man would
by no means allow — saying, that his wound, though painful,
was not, he thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt
he would soon recover. A few hours afterwards, however,
feeling himself getting much worse, ho not only allowed,
but desired that a surgeon should be sent for. One was
immediately procured. On examining the wound, he in-
quired of Davidson how he had met with it. He was told,
in reply, the same story which we have just related.

" That cannot be true," said the surgeon. " Your wound
Has not been inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp,
three-edged instrument. It is- a clean wound, and has all
the appearance of having been inflicted with a bayonet or
some such weapon. Indeed, I feel quite assured of this,
whatever may be your motives for concealing it."

Davidson repeated his asseverations of^having come by his
injury by falling on a pointed piece of wood.

" Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means
your wound has been inflicted, but how it is to be cured."
(During this time he was examining the injury.) " But 1
fear," he added, " it is beyond my skill, or that of any
other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to
think, is mortal."

" Do you think so ?" said the patient, with great calmness
and composure.

" I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it
my duty to tell you that, if you have any worldly affairs to
settle, the sooner you set about it the better."

The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed
absorbed in thought. At length he said —

" Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman ?
I know none myself, and it may be of consequence that I
should see one. I have something of importance to com-
municate."

The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as
the dying man desired to see, and immediately departed for
that purpose, having previously promised, at the earnest
request of the sufferer himself, that he would return along
with him. " I wish to have you both together," he said —
" it will be better that there are two."

In less than half an hour after, the surgeon returned
with one of the clergymen of the city. The moment they
entered, Davidson requested the former to shut the door,
and to see that it was properly secured. This done, he re-
quested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low
voice, the astounding confession that it was he who had
attempted to break into the house of his nieces, and that it
was he whom the soldier had stabbed on that occasion. All
this, indeed, the surgeon had previously suspected — for he
had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the
ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier,
but did not, till now, know anything of the relationship of
the parties. Thus much the dying man confessed ; but he
would not say, though pressed to tell, who was his associate
in the crime. This person, however, was subsequently
ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he
never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by
any one who knew him. Having made this confession, the
wretched man expired, and that even before one word of
intercession could be offered up in his behalf by the attend-
ing clergyman.

Having brought this incident to a close, vo return to the
two sisters, who were now residing with their father's
friend, Anderson. This worthy man now took an active
interest in their affairs ; and, approving of their original

intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to
further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle,
farming utensils, &c., and stock of every kind.

Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their
friend Anderson called on them, and remarked, in the
course of conversation with them, that he thought, now
that they were all snug and safe, something ought to be
done for the soldier, to whom they owed, not only a great
part of their little fortune, but, in all probability, their
lives. At this moment the young soldier entered.
During the conversation that followed, Mr Anderson dis-
covered that the young man would willingly be quit of the
army. This discovery he kept in recollection ; and, when
the soldier left them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase
his discharge, and to do so without his knowledge. This
was accordingly done on the very next day ; and in three
weeks ^afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young
soldier's name) and Jane Edmonstone were united in the
bands of holy wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the
army, it subsequently appeared, applied only to its subordi-
nate situation — more definitely speaking, to the condition
of a private — soon after purchased a lieutenant's commission
with part of his wife's money, and finally died a lieutenant-
colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man
and a gallant soldier.

PAYING OF DEBTS.

As there are many ways of contracting debts, so there are
many ways of liquidating them. Good honest people know
only of the true legitimate mode of " coming down with the
dust," and getting a receipt upon a proper stamp. Simple-
hearted beings ! how little do they know of the ways of
the world or the subtleties of man ! The scheme of the
cessio, whereby, as by a well-filled sponge, thousands of
pounds may be liquidated in a day, or the exquisite device
of the negative oath, by which a debt may be paid in a few
minutes — both beautiful expedients — are equally unknown
to them ; but there are other modes of discharging debts not
so well known or so much resorted to as those we have now
mentioned — and one of these we will now lay before our
readers, with the assurance that the facts are absolutely
true.

In the town of , (if the cap does not fit, do not

put it on,) a poor woman, whose maiden name was Finlayson,
and who had a daughter married to an industrious trades-
man, named Gibb, died of a putrescent fever. Her
son-in-law had been for some time out of employment,
and all his earnings had been consumed during that un-
productive period. He had no money, and his mother-in
law had left not a farthing. Who then was to bury her ?
The parish would not interfere, because the deceased's
brother, an undertaker in the same town, and a very rich
man, was the very person apparently pointed out, by nature
and circumstances, to do the last offices to his dead sister.
But the brother was not bound by law to bury his sister,
and natural affection had no influence with him, as well
from an original hardness of heart, as from the citadel of
the passions having been laid hold of and occupied by the
love of filthy lucre. He would not undertake the funeral
of his sister. It is a fact — we pledge ourselves for it — he
would not furnish a coffin to her, except upon one condition,
and that was that the poor industrious daughter's husband
should become bound to pay her uncle the price of the
" dead-kist" for his own sister. Much time was occupied
in the negociation, and poor Gibb was subjected to the
heart-rending condition of seeing his wife's mother lying,
beyond " nature's time," a corpse in his house, while he
was wrangling with her miserable wretch of a brother

344

TALKS OF THE BORDERS.

about the conditions on which he would furnish the coffin.
It was at last arranged. Gibb granted his obligation — the
coffin came — the old woman was put into her " fir-fecket"
and buried, and the £3 : 15s., as the price of the box,
became a debt. Thus, poor Gibb must pay or go to jail. In
the first place, he collected, from all quarters, three thousand
six hundred pieces of the current coin of Great Britain,
called farthings. These he carefully tied up in a leather-
bag, and, taking with him two trusty sooth-fast witnesses,
away he went, like a bold and independent man, to pay his
debt. He chose a very particular time for his visit, the hour
of lifting of a very rich burgher, whose funeral, conducted
by the creditor, was to take place that day.

" I'm come to pay my debt, Mr Finlayson," said Gibb,
stepping forward to the undertaker, who was dressing him-
self for the funeral.

" I'm glad o' that, John," replied the other, " as weel for
yer ain sake as mine, for nae man can haud up his head
in society, if he's awin a single farthing."

" An' far less if he is awin three thousand six hundred,"
said John, with a chuckle and a shake of the bag.

" Feth, an' ye're a perfect Cocker, John," rejoined
the undertaker. " I daresay that is just the number in
£3 : 15s.; but come away, man — ye see I've ae stocking on
and anither aff. It wants twenty minutes o' the hour,
and Bailie Adamson maunna lie a minute after the liftin
time."

" Your sister lay a week after nature's time/' responded
Gibb. " I am here to pay my debt, and have nae concern
wi' the funeral o' Bailie Adamson, wha wouldna hae paid a
single farthing for me, let alane three thousand six hundred,
if he had been leevin and I had been starvin."

" Weel, weel," cried Finlayson, impatiently, " come awa,
come awa. Here's a stamp, and I'll write the receipt.
"We'll sune knock it aff. Ane's fingers are nimbler at writ-
ing receipts than signing bills."

And he set about getting pen and ink in a great hurry,
with one leg still bare, and the stocking on the other half
rolled down. The receipt was written and lay unsigned on
the table, till the money was counted.

" Noo, noo, John — down wi' the dust, lad, as quick as ye
like," said the old hunks.

Gibb obeyed. The bag was thrown with a, loud noise
upon the table. The undertaker started at the extraordi-
nary sound.

" What's this, man ?" said lie.

" My debt," calmly replied John, proceeding at the same
time gravely to open the bag, and pour the three thousand
four hundred farthings upon the table, to the great surprise
of the creditor, who could not at first comprehend the nature
of the transaction.

" There's ane," said John, taking up a farthing, and lay-
ing it carefully on the farthest corner of the table, as if he
intended to cover the entire board in the progress of his
laborious enumeration.

" There's twa," he was proceeding, when the creditor, on
recovering himself, stopped him.

" What's this o't ?" said he, getting angry, as the truth
became more apparent — '•' what do you mean, sir ?"

" To pay my debt, in the current coin o' the realm," was
the answer.

" It's no a lawfu tender," cried the undertaker. " Be-
sides, I hae nae time to stand and see ye count that bagfu'
o' bodies. I canna wait. Tak them awa, and bring me the
usual respectable circulating medium o' the country, and
ye'll get yer receipt."

" I hereby offer ye, in presence o' these witnesses, pay-
ment o' my debt, in the king's coin," rejoined the determined
debtor. " I am ready to proceed with my enumeration. —
There's three."

'• I canna submit to this now," cried the undertaker, in

n impatient tone. " The hour o* Bailie Adamson's funeral
s at hand. They're waiting for me. Come back in the
fternoon, and we'll no cast out about the kind o' coin. I'll
ie ye a discount for respectable looking cash."
" I want nae discount," rejoined John.
" But I canna even speak about it at present, man,"
eplied the other. " See, there's a message frae the widow.
" ome, come — tak awa the bag, and come again in the after-
noon."

And he breathlessly proceeded in his operation of dress-
ng ; muttering deep curses as he drew on the reluctant
jlothes, and stamping about the floor in a state of great
excitement. John remained immoveable, with the fourth
arthing between his finger and thumb.

" Do you refuse payment o' yer debt, sir ?" said he, with
a provoking gravity.

" Curse your farthings !" cried the undertaker, now get-
ing to the height of fury, as he looked for articles of dress
ne had, in his confusion and anger, mislaid, and went
raging through the room like one demented.

" Mrs Adamson has sent for ye, Mr Finlayson," said the
servant, now entering.

" Will ye no tak payment o' yer debt, sir ?" rejoined
Gibb, in a softer tone.

" May the big-horned Mahoun tak you and your
debt thegither !" vociferated the now completely roused
undertaker. " I'll hae nane o't. Awa wi' ye !" And.
twisting his cravat round his throat, he hurried out of the
bouse.

The witnesses heard the declaration. John gathered up
his coins and proceeded home. In a week after, he was
cited before the bailies for payment of the debt. He ap-
peared with his witnesses. The nature of the debt was set
forth, and, indeed, the bailie had heard of the infamous
transaction previously, and was predisposed to favour the
defender.

" Are you due the pursuer the price of this coffin ?" said
the judge, to Gibb.

" In order to get my mother-in-law buried," replied
Gibb, " I did become bound to pay to her brother, the
pursuer, the price of the coffin. I offered him payment,
and I am ready to prove that he refused it."

" Is this true, Mr Finlayson ?" asked the judge.

"Partly, and partly no," replied the creditor. "He
insulted me by offering me a bagfu o' farthings — no a legal
tender for sic a sum."

" And you refused the king's coin ?" rejoined the judge.
" What say the witnesses f"

The witnesses were examined, and swore that Finlayson
not only refused the farthings, but the debt itself.

" I am bound to receive the evidence of these men,"
said the judge, addressing the pursuer. " It is indeed
partly corroborated by your own statement. I say nothing
of the extraordinary nature of the debt itself — that lies
between you and your conscience ; but you have refused the
king's coin in payment of your claim ; and this would be
enough, although it were unsupported by the fact that
(perhaps in anger — I care not) you refused the debt alto-
gether. No man is .bound to offer payment of a debt twice,
and I therefore discharge the defender, and declare that
this coffin debt no longer exists."

A clap of hands from the people in the court followed
this sentence, and John Gibb was congratulated by many
on the result of his ingenuity.

WILSON'S

arranitionare, antr

TALES OP THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

A CHRONICLE OF THE DEATH OF JAMES III.

IN these enlightened times, when man has become so wise
that he thinks he knows everything, it is a practice with
writers of legends which border on the supernatural, to give
a plausible solution of any difficulty which occurs, and to
reconcile, if possible, all mysterious appearances with the
ascertained and familiar ways of God's providence. We
are very far from discountenancing the study of physical
causes, recommended by Lord Bacon, and followed now-a-
days with so much zeal, and, we might say, with so much
impatience of what was at one time called the wisdom of
the world ; but we may very humbly remark, that, as its
extremes transcend truth, the stickler for the old philosophy
and the exclusive supporter of the new are equally wide of
their aim, if they think that these respective studies com-
prehend severally all the ways of Providence. The votary
of superstition, who trembles at an omen, is not farther dis-
tant from the path to eternal and immutable truth, than is
the conceited biped who, with rule and compass, dynamics,
and differential calculus, thinks he can measure and define
all the powers of nature. How little is it known to him
who makes the visible the measure of nature's existence
and power, that every step he makes, or thinks he makes
in his progress, the farther he removes from the great land-
marks of those great truths on which is founded our holy re-
ligion. James III. was killed in open day : who killed him ?
History is mute ; but tradition is eloquent, and fearfully
impressive. The reign of this unfortunate monarch was
marked by more rebellion and murder than any period of
the same extent in the history of Scotland. Other reigns
exhibited perhaps more attacks on the part of England —
more battles and greater devastation ; but the period we
have mentioned stands unrivalled for intestine cGmmotion,
faction, rebellion, plotting, and counterplotting, and all the
other effects that flow from a weakly exercised authority,
on the part of a king, over subjects the greater part of
whom, trained to arms and tournaments, and taught to hate
arid despise humane attainments, could find no relief from
the ennui of idleness, but in the stir of strife, whether exer-
cised against their external enemies or their internal com-
peers who stood in the way of their ambition. Many have
been the complaints which Scotland has made against the
invasions of England, and the sordid views of the English
monarchs, which produced them ; but little has been said
against the renegade conduct of many of her sons, who, with
matricidal views, endeavoured to put an end to her inde-
pendence as a nation, by leaguing with her enemies and
corrupting the loyalty of their brethren. It may be doubted
whether the successive treasons and rebellions of Mar,
Douglas, and Albany, and their consequent alliances with
the King of England, did not produce more evil to Scotland
than ever resulted from the unaided invasions of all the
English monarchs together ; yet, such is the inconsistency
of man, that, even at this day, the cadets and scions of
these renegade families presume upon the honours of their
birth, and get their presumption admitted and countenanced
by those who would despise the industrious benefactor of
his country.

148. VOL. Ill

There cannot be a doubt that it was entirely owing to
the weakness of the third James, that the noble enemies of
order and justice, the high barons, wrought so much evil to
their country. A late historian, of some beauty of diction,
and great command of historical erudition, but perhaps de-
ficient in what is called the philosophy of history, has
endeavoured to support James against the censures of
Leslie and Buchanan ; but his own narrative disproves his
arguments, and leaves the responsibility of a nation's sorrow
at the debit of the weakness, favouritism, and tergiversa-
tion of that unfortunate king. The rebellion at Lauder —
where his favourites, Crighton the mason, Rogers the musi-
cian, and Ireland the man of letters or rather of magic,
were hanged over the buttress of the bridge — was entirely
produced by the disappointment of the lords, who saw
their places at court occupied by mechanics, while they, too
much inclined for tumult at any rate, were left without
civil distinctions and employments to occupy their minds
and incline them to peace. But, although the weakness of
James may have formed an excuse for the nobles to rise
against him, what shall be said for the conduct of his son,
James IV., who headed the subsequent rebellion against
his own father, which ended so mournfully at the battle of
Sauchie Burn ? It was unnecessary to add the cry of public
reprobation to the voice of a crying conscience : the Prince
conceived himself to have been the murderer of his father,
and never had a day's rest or happiness on earth after the
mysterious death which his rebellious conduct had produced.
We have outlived the days of superstition, and we do not,
we dare not believe what has been handed down to us on
the subject of this self-imputed parricide — but we are at
liberty, as veracious chroniclers of tradition, to narrate what
were at one time supposed to. be the ways of a mysteri-
ous Providence, in punishing the unfilial conduct of a son,
who, after experiencing the unlimited kindness of a parent,
took into his hand arms, which, by another, though un-
known hand, were used against that parent's life. Let the
sceptical sons of modern philosophy repudiate our narrative,
as their sublime knowledge of the workings of physical
powers inclines them to shut their eyes against the dark
obscure beyond. We profess to believe that mere darkness
is not exclusive of existences, and that, though light may
be necessary to enable us to see what is permitted us to see
by the decree of Him who made us, there is also ordained
an alternation of darkness, whose dominion being coexten-
sive with the light, carries a borrowed conviction of exist-
ences, which, extended by analogy to unknown things and
regions, may make us abate our scepticism and humble our
pride of knowledge.

When the nobles who had committed the daring acts of re-
bellion and murder at the Bridge of Lauder — among whom
were Lords Gray and Hailes,the Master of Hume, and Shaw
of Sauchie-— found that the King was not inclined to extend to
them letters of pardon, they set about devising a scheme
whereby they might force that safety, to themselves and
their property, which they had not been able to procure by
entreaty and supplication. Their plan was subtle in its
nature, and dexterously executed ; but, like all schemes of
a similar kind, failed of that success which the high hopes
of political schemers point to, as the mean of their eleva-

346

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

tion to rank and power. They resolved upon taking advan-
tage of the youth and versatility of the young Prince, James
Duke of Rothsay, and, endeavouring to overcome his senti-
ments of filial love and duty, by the engrossing passion of
political ambition, get him to join them in their designs
against the power and authority of his father. By setting,
in this way, the son against the parent, they would give
weight and power to their faction, and take away the
responsibility and guilt of rebellious leaders, which could
not attach to operations commanded by the heir-apparent
of the throne. Unfortunately the disposition of the young
Prince was predisposed to the reception of the insidious
whisperings of ambition. All the faculties of his mind
were in a high degree precocious ; and his sentiments kept
pace with his intellectual powers, in suggesting wishes
which his abilities might gratify, and which his prudence
was not able to suppress. These tendencies had, it is sup-
posed, been noticed by the rebellious schemers, who,
with the example of a prior Duke of Rothsay before them,
could not well have calculated upon overcoming the instinc-
tive feelings of a son, without some indications that these
were weaker than they are even generally found to be in
the sons of kings.

This plan Avas begun to be pat into execution, by getting
the Prince prevailed upon to visit the Castle of Stirling, at
that time under the governorship of Shaw of Sauchie. He
had no sooner arrived, than a great display was made by the
lords, who were assembled there for the purpose of the most
obsequious homage and the most impassioned affection, with
the view of stimulating those feelings of a desire of power,
which already had vindicated too much force in his youthful
mind. A banquet was prepared, in honour of the heir-ap-
parent, at which there were assembled almost all those nobles
who stood in fear of his father, from having had a participa-
tion in the murder of the favourites at Lauder. The most
fulsome flattery was poured into his youthful ear ; and the
conduct of his father in resigning himself to the studies
of astrology and to the power of the professors of that occult
science, treated with a levity which bordered on derision
and laughter. This was the true chord to strike in the
heart of the Prince, who, filled with the highest enthusiasm
of chivalry, despised, as worthy of the supremest contempt
of an honourable man at arms, and far more of a king, all
such applications of the human intellect. He did not hesi-
tate to declare, in the midst of the nobles, that he did not
approve of the conduct of his father, who ought, as he thought,
to have cultivated the knowledge of arms, and left witchcraft
to old wives, and astrology to old men. These sentiments
were lauded by the company ; and the young man, buoyed
up with the conceit of a knowledge superior to that of his
father, seemed to be far advanced in the preparation he was
undergoing for bolder sentiments and unfilial resolutions.
Well may philosophers lament the evil nature of man. Few
criminal purposes can be suggested to the human heart,
without finding in its hidden recesses some chord which,
with eldritch notes, gives a response often unknown to the
will, but affording good proof that the attuning and predis-
posing power of an evil angel has been at work in that organ
of the sentiments of the salvation or perdition of mortals.

When the designing nobles saw that the young Prince
was so far prepared for their purposes, they got him en-
gaged, under the cover of a recess of the great hall, in a con-
versation with some of the leaders, and, in particular, with
Gray and Hume, who took the active part in the demoraliza-
tion of the youth. The plan adopted by Gray, in conducting
the conversation, was the result of experience, and the very
triumph of cunning. He had noticed the self-complacent
smile of the flattered Prince, when the elder nobles conceded
to him their opinion, and deferred a subtle point to the ana-
lyzing powers of his boyish judgment; and he took advantage
of the weakness of vanity, to forward his schemes of ambition.

" Your Highness has doubtless been informed," said the
arch diplomatist to the royal boy, " of the reason why
your royal father hath refused to us, in this last parliament,
the satisfaction of an act of pardon for our conduct at
Lauder, now five years old — notwithstanding that we have
been all that time in his power, and have not been troubled
with any trial for our crime or misdemeanour."

" I have understood," said the Prince, " that my father's
imprisonment and misfortunes originated from the affair
at Lauder. Is not that a good enough reason for refusing
the pardon ?"

" When I tell thee, young Prince," said Gray. " that at
Lauder the King lost his architect, his musician, his astrolo-
ger, and magician, all of whom I assisted in hanging over
the buttress of Lauder Bridge, will your Highness remain
longer of opinion, that our refusal of a pardon is owing to
the imprisonment of the King ?"

" No, my Lord," replied the Prince — u I believe I must re-
nounce that opinion upon second thoughts ; and 1 do it upon
my recollection of what I have seen and heard of my father's
sorrow for the fate of his favourites, and resentment against
their executioners. He sigheth by night and by day for his
brave and stately draughtsman, Earl Cochrane, his sweet-
toned Rogers, and his erudite Ireland. I do, on my con-
science, believe, he sorrows more for these men than for his
own imprisonment."

" And doth your Highness approve or condemn our con-
duct, in hanging these favourites over Lauder Bridge ?" said
Hume.

" Why, I think a rope was too good for them, and a par-
don not enough for the executioners," replied the Prince ;
" you should have had a bounty on each head of the varlets.
If my exchequer were not so empty, I would award ye a
recompense myself. But I have heard that some of ye
played into the hands of Gloucester, Albany, and Douglas,
in that affair of Lauder. What say ye ?"

" Thou hast been deceived," said Gray. " Archibald
Bell-the-Cat was, doubtless, for the English King, but we
stood true to our country. It was the favourites alone we
wanted to punish — and we did punish them — an act which
apparently, thy father is determined not to forgive. What
then are we to do ? Wilt thou, the heir-apparent, stand
aside and see those who freed thy father from the shackles
of favouritism, and saved our country from the domination
of a court of mechanics, consigned to a cruel punishment, or,
what is worse, to the terrors of Damocles ?"

" Never !" cried the fiery youth ; " I applaud your con-
duct, and could recommend to you some more work of the
same kind; for my father has got another court of mechanics.
Scarcely a nobleman is allowed to approach him. The
Archbishop of St Andrew's, Schevez, has not forgotten
his rudiments of astrology he learned from Spernicus a
Louvaine — for the teaching of the King keeps up his own
knowledge ; and Cochrane, Rogers, Hemmil, Torphichen,
Leonard, and Preston, whom you so beautifully suspended
over the old bridge, have been replaced by others, no less
elevated in their birth, and no less learned in the arts. My
father is lost. Scotland is ruled by the stars. The birth
of every year hath its horoscope. Chivalry declineth in
the land. The glory of the Bruce is forgotten. There is
much work before me, and I wish it were well begun, for I
cannot doubt that by your services it will be well ended."

" Thou speakest like the wisdom of the oldest of us,"
said Gray ; " and I am urged, by some of the concluding
words of thy speech, to put a question to your Highness —
yet I tremble at my own boldness."

" Speak, good Gray," said the Prince ; ' ' my father will
not pardon you and your associates, after your work of
good service is finished — I will pardon thee before thou
beginnest."

" Is it the opinion of your Highness," said the wily Baron,

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

347

" that a king who is ruled by the stars, (the moon as a
one not excepted,) is fit to govern this kingdom, which has
heretofore obeyed the statutes of parliament and the sword
of the knight ?"

" Upon the honour of my order of knighthood," cried
the Prince, " thy question goeth home into the heart and
marrow of the matter, and my answer shall not be behind
it : I opine not."

" And doth not the situation in which we stand," said
Hume — " we, the greater number of the nobles in the land,
liable every instant to forfeit our lives to an aspect of the
heavens, to be hanged for hanging the favourites of the King,
five years ago — render it imperative on us to seek in the
spirited and knightly heir-apparent, a substitute for him
who is declared unfit to rule without danger to the country
and ruin to us ?"

" Assuredly," answered the flattered Prince. " If the
King is not deposed, you will be deposed, and I shall be
scandalized by the sight of a star-gazing King, and a host
of dangling nobles, at the end of ropes not so fine as the silk
cords of Cochrane the mason's tent, which he requested for
the special convenience of his noble craig. What will

ye?"

" That thou shouldst head our party," said Gray, " and be
our king in place of thy father, who is unfit to govern this
kingdom, and unwilling to pardon his friends."

" I object not," replied the Prince. " The King my father
can be cared for tenderly. Let him be sent to my palace of
Bothsay, where he can gaze on the heavens from sunset to
sunrise, and send me daily an astrological express, to enable
me to govern the kingdom by this heavenly wisdom."

" All hail, our King !" now cried the voices of a hundred
knights and nobles, who, on a signal, had hurried from the
table, and surrounded the Prince. " All hail, James the
Fourth, King of Scotland, and our lawful sovereign !"

And the whole assemblage kneeled before the young
Prince, who received the homage with every feeling of
gratified pride.

While this extraordinary scene was in the course of being
enacted in the midst of a brilliant assemblage and the eulo-
gistic flattery of the interested actors, James felt no compunc-
tions of broken filial duty and ruptured affection. Swelled
with the pride of his new and suddenly-acquired honour, the
thought of the price at which its confirmation must be
bought — the deposition and degradation of an upright and
humane, though weak king, and that king his father — never
interfered with the flow of his gratified and excited feelings.
Everything was now grand, hilarious, and hopeful ; and a
far vista of wise legislative, and noble knightly achievements,
claimed the rapt eye of his mind, when his attention could
be taken off the brilliant scene before him. His experience
of the mind of man and the operations of fate did not in-
form him that there is a mysterious agreement between the
one and the other, Avhereby their results are mutually and
wonderfully magnified, and the individual who studies him-
self is brought to tremble at the height of joy, as the
precursor of a cause ready to plunge him into the depths oi
melancholy anticipation and sorrow. We are told that kings
are great examples in the hands of a teaching Providence,
and hence our authority for approaching with greater con-
fidence than we could do in relation to ordinary individuals
the cause of the change that awaited the feelings and
aspirations of the voung Prince on the night of his antici-
pated honour.

About twelve o'clock he was attended to his chamber,
the royal apartment of the castle, by Shaw of Sauchie,
the governor, and several of the nobles, who, after con-
versing with him for some time, left him, locking the door
after them as they departed — a measure they explained to
mm as being necessary for his own safety in the midst o'
BO much dissension and distrust as prevailed at that time

among the nobility. The circumstance did not alarm the
royal prisoner, though he could not but think it strange
that, on the first night of his installation, his palace should
be converted into a gaol, and the king of his country should
be the gaol-bird of the seneschal of one of his own castles.
Free of all sense of personal danger, he contemplated the
temporary privation of his liberty rather with a disposition
to being amused than annoyed, and lay down to court that
rest which joy, equally as sorrow, banishes from the pillow
of mortals. His thoughts took now a direetion the very
reverse of what they had followed during the day. The
image of his deceased mother, Queen Margaret, forced itself
on his mind. Her pious, reserved, and meek manners, with
her devotion to her consort and her affection to her eldest
son, all sanctified and made more lovely and interesting by
her death, softened his heart and filled his eyes with the
tears of a son's love ; while his undutiful conduct that night,
in agreeing to the dethronement of his father, silently
censured, as it appeared to be, by her gentle spirit, called
up a feeling of remorse which wrung his heart with pain,
and added to the tears which he was already shedding in
profusion. If left to his choice, he would now have undone
what he had been so ready to perform at the request of
factious and interested men ; and, if the door of his apart-
ment had not been locked, the strength of his feelings
might have urged him to seek for safety and forgiveness at
the feet of his injured parent.

The hour was far advanced, but the restlessness of his
fevered fancy still prevented all rest. The apartment was
dark, no attendant was within call, and he was necessitated,
though a king, to yield obedience to a power which no
mortal can resist ; the feelings of love, sorrow, regret, re-
morse, and repentance — as applicable to the parent who was
lying in a royal sepulchre, and to another who was virtually,
in so far as regarded his intention, deposed and degraded —
alternated, became stronger, decayed, and revived again,
with a painful and harassing vacillation. He heard the
warder call two o'clock ; again all was silent as before, and
his thoughts were about to fall into the same painful train,
when he heard the iron bar of the door of his apartment
gently drawn,, and saw enter the figure of an old man, with
a long grey beard, a grey cloak, which reached to his feet
and was bound by a blue belt, and holding in his hand a
taper, which, glimmering with a fitful light, exposed very
imperfectly the strange and fearful looking object who held
it. James' eyes were fixed upon him intensely, and the
lustreless orbs of his visiter repaid the look with as intent
a gaze, and made a thrill of superstitious terror run over his
body. The figure continued the gaze as it approached the
bed, which, having reached, it stood silent, holding up the
lamp in the face of the trembling youth, and apparently
taking care not to change the set of its features, or the
direction or manner of its look. This attitude enabled
James to scan narrowly the features of the individual : they
appeared to be somewhat sinister, though he could not say
where the precise expression lay, or what it truly was —
seriousness seemed to degenerate into sternness, and that
again into malignity, which was again relieved by some
features of kindness and patronizing protection. A deep
scar on the right cheek, and what by doctors is called a
staphylomatic eye, in consequence of its resemblance to a
white grape, had a great share in the production of the
uncertain expression which was so difficult to read. Having
thus stood for some time at the side of the bed, looking
into the face of the Prince, and holding the glimmering
lamp so as to suit its imperfect vision, the figure lifted
solemnly its left hand, and, in a low and somewhat guttural
tone of voice, said —

'• What is the duty of a son to a parent, of a subject to a
king, of a creature to the Creator ?" .

James was silent ; the question was threefold, and ira

348

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

plied censure, which, co-operating with his fear prevented
reply.

" What doth he deserve/' proceeded the figure, " who
disobeyeth his parent, deposeth his king, and rebelleth
against the laws of God ?"

The terror of an apparition working on a predisposed
mind was every moment receiving an augmentation of
strength ; and the young Prince, in place of replying, grasped
the bed-clothes firmly round him, and eyed the speaker
with nervous looks.

" Thou answerest not," continued the speaker — " and
why ? Pride and self- approbation are gifted with, the
loquacity of the joy which, they say, chattereth only when
the sun shineth ; but wisdom is represented by the owl,
whose reign is in the still hours of night. Yesterday thou
couldst speak of being a king — ay, a king over thy father
and thy father's subjects — and a king in the verity of traitors
tongues thou art ; yet where is thy authority, when even the
tongue of royalty cleaveth slavishly to the parched mouth
of the conscience-stricken, and preventeth thee from seizing
these dry bones" (holding forth his hands) u and consigning
this head of grey hairs to the Heading Hill of Stirling ?
The king or the prince who is enslaved by his conscience,
oweth the duties of villeinage to the worst and hardest of
masters. The chain is forging, the forge is in action, the
hammer and the anvil hold in their embrace the connecting
links of a king's bondage. The eagle flies o'er Shihallion
to-day, and to-morrow the spurning pinions quiver in the
grasp of the hand. The exulting swelling heart of virtue
hath not yet collapsed. There is time to rouse thyself and
throw off the tyrant whose power thou feelest even now.
Return to thy allegiance. Love and obey thy father ; aid
him against his foes. Refuse — and be thrice miserably
damned."

The figure turned and retreated from the bed. The
door was opened, shut and locked. Nothing was to be
seen and nothing heard. Roused from his fear, James
sprung up and cried —

" Whether of mortal mould, or a mere borrower on oc-
casion of our rude forms of earth, return, and say whence
thy commission and of what import ? If a mere messenger
of man, I'll heed thee not ; but, if thou'lt give me proof
that James of Scotland, my royal father, enjoys the pro-
tection of the King of All, I'll on the instant renounce my
new-born honours, hail him king, thee my good angel,
and be once more plain James of Rothsay."

No answer was returned to the call of the Prince ; he
listened for a time at the door of the apartment, and, hearing
no sound, returned to bed, where, after tossing about for
several hours, he fell into a sound sleep. Towards mornin
he dreamed that the figure again visited him and commune
•with him on the crime of filial disobedience — the fancied
apparition and the supposed conversation being in the
dream so clearly developed that, when he awoke, he felt
the greatest difficulty in endeavouring to segregate the real
from the imaginary appearances. He had even doubts
whether he had actually seen the figure, or whether the first
scene was not that of a dream as well as the second ; and
he knew of no mode other than that of having recourse to
simple conviction of satisfying himself on this interesting
point. He was not contented with the proof afforded by his
consciousness, the very ne plus ultra of human probation,
and resolved on making an application to the warder, with
the view of getting some confirmation of the 2viden.p<» of his
senses.

He had scarcely made this resolution, when Governor
Shaw unlocked the door and entered the apartment. Full
of the thoughts he had been indulging and canvassing with
so much anxiety since he arose, the Prince told his visiter
what he thought he had seen during the night, but candidly
admitted that he had had also a vision in a dream approach-

ing so nearly to the reality of the waking sense, that he could
not take upon him to say that the first appearance was
undoubtedly a real natural exhibition of a mortal existence.
The governor listened with great attention, and anxiously
inquired what was the subject of the conversation that
passed between him and the old man. The Prince narrated
to him as nearly as possible the words used by the figure,
and admitted that he himself had no power to reply, till
after the visiter was gone and the door locked. Shaw
was evidently much moved by the recital ; and, in a con-
fused and hurried manner, endeavoured to convince James
that he had had a visit of nightmare — an affection with
which he was probably, in consequence of his extreme
youth, as yet unacquainted, but a mysterious operation of
nature, quite sufficient to produce in a young and fervent
mind that semi-consciousness of reality which had appa-
rently perplexed him so much. He recommended to him
to banish the affair from his mind, and, above all, to say
nothing of it to the warlike nobles in the castle, whose
very objection to the rule of his father was founded on the
latter's faith in dreams, auguries, and astrological nostrums
— a true sign of a weak intellect.

This latter part of the governor's statement, which was
delivered with much gravity, produced a great effect upon
the mind of James, whose contempt of his father's occult,
astrological, and oneirocritical practices, was the cause of his
disobedience as well as its apology. He trembled at the
thought of incurring, on his own part, the censure which
had been heaped on his parent, and felt anxious to escape
precipitately from the subject he had broached, as well as
from his own thoughts, which, mixing up reality and ima-
gination in inextricable confusion, prod uced nothing but doubt,
irresolution, and anxiety. If he had been anxious, on the
entry of Shaw, to tell him the wonders of the night, he was
now more anxious to undo what he had done, and remove
from the mind of the governor any suspicion that he in-
herited from his father his hairbrained propensity to
believe in dreams and divinations. Changing the style of
his speech, as well as the expression of his countenance, he
attempted to make light of his nocturnal adventure, and
laughed off the clinging belief with an effort which was not
unnoticed by his wily visiter. The power of early preju-
dices in overcoming the convictions of truth, effected a par-
tial triumph ; but there still clung to the mind of the youth
a feeling of a struggling conviction, which his forced laugh
and his expressed contempt of all supernatural beliefs had
little power to effect. He felt, however, the necessity of
maintaining absolute silence on a subject so intimately con-
nected with his dispute with his father, and Shaw under-
took to say nothing of the occurrence, which he affected to
think had been properly treated by the noble mind of the
young Prince.

The scheme of this unnatural rebellion being persevered
in with great determination and asperity, a court was held
next day in the Castle of Stirling, where all the ceremonies
of a royal levee were gone through with studied state and
affected etiquette. The Earl of Argyle was reinstated in
the office of Chancellor, which had been conferred by his
father on Elphinston, Bishop of Aberdeen. A negotiation
was opened with the English King, Henry VII., who, hav-
ing had a dispute with the old King as to the restoration of
Berwick, very readily entered into the views of the son, and
agreed to grant passports to his ambassadors, the Bishops
of Glasgow and Dunkeld, the Earl of Argyle, Lords Lyle
and Hailes, with the Master of Hume, who were, in fact,
the heads of the rebellious party. The boldness of these
proceedings, quadrating with the weakness of the King's
actions, spread disaffection among the people of Scotland,
far'and wide, and it was soon rumoured that the monarch,
afraid of the disposition of his subjects towards the south,
had proceeded to Aberdeen, and issued orders for the array

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

349

of Strathearn and Angus, and all his friends in the north
who still retained their allegiance. If the son soon found
himself at the head of a large force in the south, the father
was as successful in the north. Athole, Huntly, Crawford,
and Lindsay of Byres, joined his standard ; and to these
were soon added Buchan, Errol, Glamrnis, Forbes, and
Kilmaurs — so that the two ends of the kingdom were
completely arrayed against each other, and the antagonist
forces were headed by a father and a son.

The monarch having thus vacated the capital and be-
taken himself to the north, an opportunity was held out to
the son to lay siege to the Castle of Edinburgh ; and orders
were given to the troops to proceed in that direction.
During all this time the mind of the Prince had been kept
up by the insidious counsels of the rebel lords, who repre-
sented the unfilial work in which he was engaged as con-
ducive to the benefit of the kingdom which would receive
the blessings of his wise legislation. The youth was
flattered by these statements ; and the details of an army,
by occupying his thoughts, banished from his recollection
the night scene of the Castle of Stirling, which, as time
aided the efforts of his sceptical wishes, gradually appeared
to assume more and more the character of a false and
delusive dream. Meanwhile, Hume and Hailes, and others
who had been sent as ambassadors to England, returned
with intelligence that Henry was favourable to their cause —
a circumstance which still farther flattered the vanity of the
youth, and prevented him from giving way to the feelings
of instinctive duty and affection towards his father. Pro-
ceeding gradually forward, the rebel army came to Black-
ness, near Linlithgow, where they encamped.

The army of the King, in the meantime, came up, and
the unusual sight was exhibited of two parts of a nation,
headed by a father and a son, contending for a throne,
arrayed against each other, with reciprocal feelings of
enmity and views of mortal conflict. The benevolent heart
of the father relented, and terms of accommodation, as pre-
pared by Huntly and Errol, were sanctioned by his signa-
ture, but prevented from being properly submitted to the
son, by the rash conduct of Buchan, who thought he \vould
be able to extinguish the rebellion by one blow. A skir-
mish was the consequence, in which the Earl gained some
advantage ; but, though the triumph was magnified into
a victory, the rebel forces were as strong as ever, while the
sight of kindred blood on the swords of the warriors of
either side of the field sickened the hearts of brave men,
who, in other circumstances, would have been fired by the
token of an advantage over an enemy. The wish for an
accommodation was increased on the side of the King and
his troops, and the former terms of accommodation were
submitted to the rebel Prince, who was still under the lead-
ing-strings of the arch traitors by whom he had been led
into this unseemly and unnatural position.

The terms of accommodation were extremely favourable
to the insurgent forces, as, without exacting any condition
but that of laying down their arms, the King agreed to
admit them to favour and grant them pardons for present
and bygone offences ; yet great dissension existed amongst
the rebels on the subject of the acceptance of the offer of
peace, and the Prince, urged on by Gray, in whom he had
the greatest confidence, headed the party who were inclined
to stand out.

' I for one," said the youth, ' ' receive nothing by these
terms but the mighty boon of forgiveness, which will
neither add to my honours nor contribute to my ambition.
By being the friend of my royal father, I may be gratified by
getting a view of Venus through his astrolabe ; but I would
rather, upon the honour of a knight, be his lieutenant in
the government of this part of the planet Earth called
Scotland. It is clear that my father is as unfit to rule the
kingdom as was the father of the former holder of my title

of Duke of Rothsay, Robert the Third, who made his son
lieutenant-general — and why should I be debarred from
what is my natural and legitimate right ? It will be for
the good of you all that I am appointed to that office, in so
much as the friendship of a ruler invested with all the
power is better than the pardon of a king who has none."

These sentiments were opposed by many of the lords,
and, in particular, by the Earl of Argyle.

" By these terms of accommodation," said he, " we get
all we have been fighting for, or can expect from a victory
gained through the blood of our countrymen and kinsmen —
a free pardon for the execution of the favourites at the
bridge of Lauder, and a restoration to the favour and con-
fidence of the King. We cannot force a lieutenancy in
favour of the Prince who is at present our king, otherwise
than by committing his royal father to close confinement —
for what self-denying ordinance could prevent a sane and
free king, not deposed by his subjects, from exercising his
authority in opposition to that of a lieutenant forced upon
him against his will and acting against his wishes ? The
crown, as surely as a coffin, will come to one prince by the
course of nature, and better wait for a regular inheritance,
than anticipate a right by rebellion, spoliation, and force."

Other arguments were used by other nobles, and the
convention retired to their tents without coming to any
determination. The night was clear and beautiful : the
sky shone with cerulean brightness ; a clear, full moon shot
her silvery rays " over tower and tree ;" and every twinkling
star in the blue firmament seemed to rejoice in the oppor-
tunity of getting its weak beam thrown upon the green
earth, and adding its small mite to the general exuberance
of the smiles of the whole heavenly host. The noise of the
convention of angry nobles having ceased, and the men,
wearied by bearing arms all day, having retired to rest, there
was nothing to disturb the silence which reigned co-ordinately
with the serene light, and made the seene more impressively
beautiful. "When left to himself, the young Prince felt the
contrast between the appearance of nature, thus arrayed in
her fairest smiles, and beautified by calmness and com-
posure, and the position of a father and a son, lying in wait
for an opportunity of engaging in the strife of war, and
of even shedding each other's blood, by the vicarious hands
of those they were leading on to the fight of kindred against
kindred. His heart softened ; the feelings of nature re-
turned for a time, and vindicated the authority they should
never have lost. His versatility was exclusive of a perma-
nent establishment in his bosom of affection and duty, but
it was, as it generally is, a pledge of the strength of the
reigning emotion, for the time, which, in proportion to
the shortness of its duration, was intense in its action and
engrossing in its extent. Having thrown himself on his
couch, he resigned himself to the influence of these feel-
ings ; the poetical enthusiasm which is generated by a con-
templation of nature in her beautiful moods, and, in his
instance, called forth by a survey (through the opening of
his tent) of the shining heavens and the sleeping earth,
came in aid of the instinctive emotions which occupied his
bosom ; and he could not restrain the expression of what
he felt.

" I have sat on the knee of him against whom I am
arrayed in preparation for mortal fight, and I have seen the
tear rise in his eye, as, looking first at me, and then at my
departed mother, (bless her pure spirit, which dwelleth in
that Eether !) he felt proud of the pledge of their loves, and
hopeful of the virtues of a good king, to succeed him when
he died. What would have been his emotions, if he had
been told by some of his occult divinations, that the boy he
cherished and wept over, would lift his hand against his
life, and endeavour to pluck the crown from his living
head ? How dreadful, at this moment, appears to me
my position and my conduct ! Almost in my view, my

330

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

parent lays his head on the pillow of a field tent, uncertain
•whether his son and his son's friends may permit him to
awake again, to view the beauties of that moon, and all
that she discovers to the eye of man. Heavens ! and I,
conscious of my ingratitude, know its haneful effects on a
parent's mind, and yet do not rise instantly and throw my-
self at his feet ! Cruel versatility of nature, under which
I stand accursed ! Where shall I find the elements of con-
sistency, the true parent of happiness ? Alas ! I obey only
the impulses of constitution. Would that, at this auspicious
moment, I had an opportunity of acquiring again the matter
of these terms of peace ! The feelings of a son, roused by
conscience, would suggest an eloquence before which all the
specious views and paradoxes of Gray and Hume would
disappear, like vapours before the light of that shining
queen of the heavens."

He lifted his eyes as he spoke, to look again at the bright
moon, and saw before him, palpable to his waking intelli-
gence, the identical figure which had appeared to him in
the Castle of Stirling. The light brought out his form in
full perfection, and a long shadow thrown upon the floor
of the tent gave an additional evidence of his presence ;
the scar upon his cheek, and the staphylomatic orb, were
apparent, and proved his identity ; and his look and manner
indicated a purpose similar to that he had announced on
the occasion of his prior appearance.

" He whom the gods wish to destroy," said the figure,
" is first by them deprived of reason ; and thy disregard
of my counsel sheweth that thou art bent on thy own
ruin. Thy father lieth there" — (pointing his finger) — "I will
lead thee to his tent ; and, see ! there lieth beside thee on
that couch a sword. What need of more ? Why not in
pity end'his woes and life together? That bright moon will
glory in the sight of a son imbruing his hand in the blood
of a parent — her light will be incarnadined by the running
stream of life — but water will wash the hands of the parri-
cide. Come, follow ! Dost thou hesitate ? Why, then,
this warlike array?"

" Fiend or angel," cried the Prince — " which art thou ?
Are the counsels of heaven couched in irony, or am I ad-
vised by a messenger of hell ? Give thy thoughts another
and a clearer form, and satisfy me that thou art well com-
missioned for the counsel of youth, and I will hail thee friend.
Of sage advisers, with hair as white as thine, and speech as
strange, circuitous, and wild, I have enough — my soul is torn
by their contests for the mastership of my royal will. I'd
give an earldom of ten thousand acres for ten words winged
with the wisdom of above. Speak ! — what art thou ?"

" All that is good comes from the skies," replied the man ;
" and mortals, to attain it, are not required to trust alone to
the vicarious powers which live in that blue light of the
moon's silver glory. The triumph of God's wisdom soundeth
through man's heart. Thou hast heard it and heeded it
not. The soft and solemn notes of goodness, suited to
the gravity of knowledge that tendeth to salvation, have
not awakened thee ; and the harsh tones of stimulating irony
have, as a last resource, been tried on the obdurate heart of
filial disobedience. Why more ? Hast thou forgot our meet-
ing in the Castle of Stirling ? Renounce thy vain specula-
tions in the origin of my mission and the nature of this
form, which, thou seest, casteth a shadow on the ground,
and listen to the counsel which is independent of the tongue
of man or angel that pronounceth it. Agree to thy father's
terms ; hasten to his bosom, fall on it, weep away the dregs
of thy disobedience, and rejoice in the composing and healing
virtues of the fatted calf."

Having said these words, the figure glided quickly out of
the tent ; and, though James immediately rose and followed,
he could see no trace of the extraordinary being who thus
haunted him, and counselled him, apparently for his good.
He called some of his attendants, and asked of them if they

had seen any person leave his tent ; but they answered in
the negative ; and, though he personally searched among the
tents, and even visited the camp of the sutlers, he could
find no trace of the mysterious counsellor, fie returned to
his tent, and again threw himself on his couch. This vision
was at least no dream. All the powers of Shaw, and all the
sceptical raillery of those who laughed his father's credulous
belief in dreams and divinations to scorn, could not, he was
satisfied, drive from his mind the effects produced by the
appearance and language of this extraordinary visiter. He
began to think that the wisdom of his father, whose maxim
was, that there is more in nature than man's shallow
philosophy can fathom, was truer and better lore than
the self-sufficient and profane knowledge of his noble
advisers ; and, though he had no evidence that the figure was
an unincorporated essence, but rather suspected that it
was made of flesh and blood like himself, there was an
impressivencss and solemnity in his thoughts and man-
ner of delivering them, which justified the maxim he had
himself delivered, that wisdom may come from heaven
by other means than the mediation of celestial messen-
gers. The train of reflections which followed were grave
and sage ; the feelings of a son who had injured his father
and wished to make amends, acquired an ascendancy where
they should never have lost their power, and a resolution
to agree on the morn to the terms of accommodation offered,
and thus obey the counsel of the mysterious visiter, was
formed before slumber overtook his distracted mind.

Early in- the morning, the council of nobles again met,
and the discussions were resumed as to the expediency of
accepting the offers of peace. The Prince sat listening to
the arguments in a mood of gloomy abstraction, from which
he appeared to struggle to get free, and, at last starting up,
he put an end to the strife of contending tongues by de-
livering solemnly his changed opinion.

" We have all heard," he said, " that there is great wis-
dom in night counsel — (consilium in nocte) — forgive me —
I do not say in dreams, or visions, or consultations of the
heavens, but in the weighing of rational arguments in the
balance of the judgment, when there is no disturbing cause
to shake the scales, and no prejudice to add a false weight
to the deductions of a biased reasoning. I stand in a
position different from you all. You are fighting against
your King, I against my father. You are seeking what is
offered to you by the terms in question ; I am fighting for
what death or superannuation alone can bestow — a king's
crown or a vicegerent's tiara ; and I am offered what I
scarcely deserve — an indulgent father's forgiveness and af-
fection. Why should I hesitate, when, by standing out, I
may lose the crown and my father's love, while, by acquies-
cing, I insure the one at present, and retain the other by a
sure expectancy? The words of Argyle have sat on my
heart all night. If I live till my father die, a crown and a
coffin are equally certain to me ; and I shall put on the
one and lie down in the other with feelings better befitting
the heir of a kingdom on earth and one in heaven, by acting
as becometh a good son, than those that can result from a
consciousness of disobedience. Our commissioners, there-
fore, have my authority for agreeing to the terms of peace."

This speech, so different from the one of the previous
day, was received with loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from
the leading rebels, who calculated with certainty on the
steadiness of a youth who, having been untrue to his father,
might safely have been suspected of a tendency to a dan-
gerous vacillation as regarded his new colleagues. The
numbers on the side of the Prince were, however, great —
perhaps, amounting to a majority — so that the discontented
nobles were obliged to suppress their chagrin, and permit
the commissioners to go through the ceremony of accepting
the terms of accommodation. The treaty was, therefore,
concluded in the course of the day.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

351

The monarch, acting upon the supposition that every-
thing was amicably settled, withdrew his army and retired
back upon Edinburgh, where, in the excess of his gratitude
to those who had brought about a result so beneficial to
the kingdom and so gratifying to the feelings of a father, he
bestowed upon several of the nobles and knights substantial
marks of his royal favour. The Earl of Crawford was
created Duke of Montrose, Lord Kilraaurs was raised to
the rank of Earl Glencairn, and the lairds of Balnamoon,
Lag, Balyard, and others, received grants of land. All was
settled, as the weak but good monarch thought, amicably
and lastingly. Yet how vain are the anticipations of mortals' !
At the very time when a species of jubilee was celebrating
in Edinburgh on the reorganization of the court and the
restoration of peace and tranquillity, the uncompromising
rebel lords were triumphing in another victory over the
mind and sentiments of the Prince. The versatile youth
having survived the solemn impression made on his mind
y his nocturnal counsellor, was as ready as ever to listen
to the rebellious advice of the nobles, who, trusting to their
power over him, had secretly kept together the army, which
they had merely cantoned in various parts of the south.
The Monarch had scarcely rested himself in the Castle of
Edinburgh, when he was informed that the same fierce
faction had resumed their ambitious schemes, and were
again assembled, with the Prince at their head, in more
formidable array than before.

The instant this intelligence reached Edinburgh, the
King's friends who had remained in the city, urged him to
reassemble his army without delay, and put a total end to
the insurrection by a quick and decisive blow. The loyal
nobles were active in their measures, and collected, in a
very short time, their retainers ; while summonses were
issued to all those who had returned home, and, especially,
the lords of the north, to assemble their clans and meet the
King's troops at Stirling, whither his Majesty intended to
repair in person. The commands were most readily obeyed;
the popularity of the cause of the father against the son
was very great, and had considerably increased since the
breach of faith which the latter and his rebel colleagues
had displayed in not adhering to the late solemn treaty ;
and, in a very short time, the royal army exhibited an
enlargement of its ranks, which justified expectations of a
speedy settlement of this unnatural strife. Abandoning
the Castle of Edinburgh, the monarch approached Stirling,
where, having placed himself at the head of his army, he
met and attacked with considerable spirit the forces of his
son, which, having dispersed, he forced them across the
Forth, and immediately after demanded admittance into his
Castle of Stirling. This request was refused by Shaw,
the governor ; and, before preparations could be made for
forcing a surrender, or, indeed, before a decision was come
to whether an attack should, in the circumstances, be re-
sorted to, intelligence was brought that the antagonist
forces had reassembled and were encamped in strong array
on the level plain above the bridge of the Torwood.

Upon hearing this intelligence, the monarch immediately
advanced against the insurgents ; and, having no longer any
faith in the breakers of solemn covenants, encountered
them on a track of ground known at present by the name
of Little Canglar, situated upon the east side of a small
brook called Sauchie Burn, about two miles from Stirling,
and one from the field of Bannockburn. The royal army
was drawn up in three divisions, under the advice of Lord
Lindsay — the first composed of the northern clans, under
Athole and Huntly, forming an advance of Highlandmen,
armed with bows, daggers, swords, and targets ; the rear
division, consisting of Westland and Stirling men, under
Menteith, Erskine, and Graham ; and the main battle, com-
posed of burghers and commons, being led by the King
timself. On the right of the King, who was splendidly

armed, and rode a tall grey horse presented to him by
Lord Lindsay, was that venerable warrior and the Earl of
Crawford, commanding a noble body of cavalrv, consisting
of the chivalry of Fife and Angus ; while on his left Lord
Ruthven, with the men of Strathearn and Stormont, formed
a body of nearly five thousand spearmen. On the other
band, the rebel lords formed themselves also into three
battles ; the first division, composed of the hardy spear-
men of East Lothian and Merse, being led by Lord Ilailes
and the Master of Hume ; the second, formed of Gahvegians
and the hardy Borderers of Liddesdale and Annandale,
being led by Lord Gray ; while the middle, composed of the
rebel lords, was led by the Prince, whose mind, recurring
again to the vision of Stirling and Blackness, was torn with
remorse, and compelled him to seek some relief— alas ! how
small could the means afford ! — by issuing an order that nc
one should dare, in the ensuing conflict, to lay violent hands
on his father.

A shower of arrows (as usual) began the battle, and did
little execution on either side ; and it was not till the Bor-
derers, with that steady and determined valour which prac-
tice in war from their infancy enabled them to turn to so
good account, advanced and attacked the royal army, that
the serious work of the engagement could be said to have
begun. But the beginning was more like an ending than
the incipient skirmishing of men not yet warmed into the
heat of strife. The onset was terrible, and the slaughter so
great, that the Earls of Huntly and Menteith retreated in
confusion upon the main body, commanded by the King,
and threw it into an alarm from which it did not recover.
After making a desperate stand, the royal forces began to
waver ; and the tumult having reached the spot where the
King was stationed, he was implored by his attendant lords
not to run the risk of death, which would bring ruin on
their cause, but to leave the field while yet he had any
chance of doing so with safety. The monarch consented
reluctantly, and, while his nobles continued the battle, put
spurs to his horse, and fled at full speed through the village
of Bannockburn. On crossing the Bannock, at a hamlet
called Milltown, he came suddenly upon a woman drawing
water, who, surprised and terrified by the sight of an armed
horseman, threw down her pitcher and flew into her house.
The noise terrified the noble steed, which, flying off' and
swerving to a side, cast his rider. The King fell heavily
with his armour bearing him to the ground, and, being much
bruised by the concussion, swooned and lay senseless on
the earth. He was instantly carried into a miller's cottage
by people who knew nothing of his rank, but, compassion-
ating his distress, treated him with great humanity.

Having put the unfortunate monarch to bed, the inmates
of the house brought him such cordials as their poverty
could command. In a short time he opened his eyes, and
earnestly requested the presence of a priest.

" Who are you," inquired the good woman who attended
him, " that we may tell who it is that requires the assist-
ance of the holy man?"

" Alas ! I was your Sovereign this morning," replied he.

On this the poor woman ran out of the cottage, wringing
her hands, and calling aloud for some one to come and confess
the King.

" I will confess him," answered an old man in a grey
cloak, tied round the waist with a blue sash. " Where is
his Majesty?"

The woman led him to the house, where the Monarch
was found lying on a flock-bed, with a coarse cloth thrown
over him, in an obscure corner of the room. The old man
knelt down, and asked him tenderly what ailed him, and
whether he thought that, by the aid of medical remedies,
he might recover ? The King assured him there was no
hope, and begged the supposed priest to receive his con-
fession • whereupon the old man, bending over him, under

352

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

pretence of discharging his holy office, drew a dagger, and
stabbed the unresisting victim to the heart ; repeating de-
liberately his thrusts, till he thought life was extinct.

On hearing of the death of his father, James was incon-
solable. He ordered all search to be made for the murderer.
No trace of him could be found — the only evidence that
could be procured against him, was the description of his
person by the old woman of the cottage, and the dagger
with which the deed had been committed. The woman was
taken before James, that he might receive the evidence with
his own ears. The room in which he led the evidence
was purposely darkened. The dreadful state of mind into
which the quasi parricide was cast, exhibiting alternately
remorse, terror, grief, and shame, would have consigned
him to absolute seclusion, had he not thought that he
would make some amends for his crime, by endeavouring
to discover the murderer of his parent. He threatened
the most exemplary vengeance ; and, while he sat wrapped
in gloom, in an apartment darkened almost to night, his
emissaries were active on every hand, in endeavouring to
find some clue to the murder. The old woman was
placed before the King, and the dagger put into his hands.

" What is this ?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the instru-
ment, which still retained upon its blade the blood of his
father's heart. " God's mercy ! It is my own dagger ! — ay,
that very dagger I wore and lost upon that dreadful day !"

The words were uttered in a low tone, and rendered, by
the King's dreadful excitement, unintelligible. Partly re-
covering himself, he cast his eyes on the woman and the
two courtiers that sat beside, and seeing them occupied in
arranging the materials for taking down the precognition,
he thrust the dagger among the folds of his robes, and sat
and trembled, as if the finger of an avenging God was
pointing him out to the world as the murderer of his
father. He was several times on the point of swooning, as
he thought he observed Lord Gray, who was present, fol-
lowing with his eye his extraordinary motions, and search-
ing with a keen look for the dagger.

" We had better have the dagger for the woman to speak
to," said Gray. f! Your Majesty hath examined it, I
opine."

" Proceed with the precognition, my Lord," said James,
hesitatingly. " I shall retain the dagger, and examine it
in private. My grief chokes me. I cannot put the ques-
tions. Proceed, my Lord."

The King trembled as he uttered these words, and Gray
and the other courtier looked at each other, as if they held
a mental colloquy as to his strange conduct. They pro-
ceeded in the examination of the woman, in which they
went over several incidents already communicated.

" Are you sure the dagger was that carried by the old
priest who stabbed the King ?" said Gray.

"• I'm sure it is," answered the woman. " It fell frae
him as he hastened out o' the cottage. It was the bluid
on't that first tauld me o' his cruel act ; for I thought the
King's granes cam frae the pains o' his distress."

" You got a good sight of the old man then, I presume/'
continued Gray.

" A far better sight than thae closed shutters will allow
me to hae o' his Majesty, wha sits there," replied she.

James started, and looked fearfully at the witness.

" Describe the man," said Gray.

" He was a tall man," replied she, " dressed in a lang grey
cloak, which was bound round the middle by a blue belt. I
observed a deep scar on his right cheek, and his left ee was
like a white grape."

This description, which was exactly that of James'
night visiter, came upon him like the ghost of his murdered
father. He fainted. Lord Gray ran to his assistance ; and,
as he supported him, the dagger fell out from among the
folds of the robes. James remained insensible for some

time. As he recovered, his eye fell upon the blood -stained
instrument that was now in the hands of Gray ; and, stretch-
ing out his right hand, he convulsively seized it, took it
from the Baron, and again secreted it in the folds of his
robes. His manner was wild and confused.

" Take away that woman," he cried ; " she has no more
to say ; and, if she had, I am not in a condition to hear it.
She talks strange things about a man that hath a gash on
his cheek and an eye like a grape. I cannot listen to these
things. The words burn my brain. She must be a sorce-
ress. I shall have her sent to the stake."

" She is an honest dame, your Majesty," said the other
courtiers, " and beareth an excellent reputation where she
resideth."

" Thou liest !" cried the King. <f Take her away ! take
her away ! I must be alone. These windows are not dark-
ened enough. Hath the smith forged my penance- belt ?
See to it, Gray. My soul crieth for pain, as he who hath
been burnt crieth for fire to cure the pain of fire. I did
not lose my dagger at Sauchie. It was a lie forged by a
renegade. I have it still, and will shew it thee on the
morrow. Let me rest. This brain requireth repose."

The lords hurried away the witness, and left the King
to his meditations. He was seized with one of those ex-
traordinary fits of terror and remorse that afterwards visited
him at regular intervals. When the fit left him, he sum-
moned up courage to publish an account of the person who
killed the King, and offered a large reward for his appre-
hension. In this description, he followed the account of
the woman as well as his own experience ; the fearful
marks were set forth with great care; and no one doubted
but that an individual, so strangely pointed out by nature,
as differing from other men, would be instantly seized and
brought before the throne. While this hope was vigorous,
the King was in misery. He feared a meeting with the
mysterious being who had tracked him in his rebellious
course. Every sound roused him and made him tremble.
But the time passed, and the hope died. No such person
was ever seen or heard of, and James was left, during the
remainder of his life, to the terrors of a conscience that never
slept. We do not pretend to reconcile the conduct of this
mysterious personage in first dissuading the Prince from op-
posing his father, and then killing the latter with the former's
dagger ; but James himself put a construction upon it,
which accorded with the state of his mind and feelings.
He wore around him, ever after, an iron chain, as pen-
ance for being the cause of the death of his father, con-
ceiving that Providence followed that extraordinary course
we have detailed, for punishing him for his filial disobe-
dience. Some say the same figure appeared to him before
he went to Flodden. A reference to our story, " The
Apparition of Flodden Field," — may clear up this point.
The legends are clearly connected, and make one history.
They are, however, both equally mysterious and obscure.
In both the figures boded for good, and yet evil came. They
were fearful demonstrations of a secret power, that worketh
"in strange ways." Inscrutable at the time, the mystery
has never been cleared up. We have done something — yet
how much remains in darkness ?

WILSON'S

l, atettrftwnare, *«&

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

SANDY MURRAY, THE LEG ACY-HUNTER.

WE know not how the legacy-hunters of Rome succeeded
in their attempts to catch the old gudgeons styled Thynni —
a species of delicate fish, of very short life, in great request
among epicures — but, if we can judge from the circumstance
of Horace having dedicated the fifth satire of his second
book to the description of the various arts and practices
resorted to in his day by the lovers of legacies, the trade of
fortune-hunting flourished among the ancients as beautifully
as it does in our land. But we have a strong suspicion
that the ancients were not very well up to the trade.
Horace, with all his cleverness, gives us very little insight
into the mysteries of the craft. He seems to hold, that the
/i&redipetce—the. deathbed cormorants of his time — could do
little more than take upon them the commissions ol the old
hunks whom they wished to catch, and make themselves
serviceable to him in every way suitable to his humour ; and,
doubtless, this contains a great part of the secret of the art ;
yet a pawky Scotchman could have put the old satirist up to
many a beautiful trick of fortune-angling, which would have
made his little grey eye twinkle, as prettily as ever did the
smiles of Maecenas. He tells a stery of one Nasica, who
offered an old miser, Coranus, his daughter in a present,
with a view to get him to leave him his fortune — perhaps
the best device tbat ever a Roman fortune-hunter had the
art to resort to ; but Coranus saw through the wile, and,
while he took the maiden, gave her father a secret and con-
fidential perusal of his will, wherein the name of Nasica was
not even mentioned ; and Coranus laughed heartily atNasica's
disappointment. But we have a better story, equally true,
where a pawky Scotchman attempted to force his way to
the dry heart of a rich old grandam, not by offering to give
her, according to the plan of Nasica, a present of his son,
but by offering to take from her, and treat kindly, a friend,
more dear to old women than man or woman. That friend
will appear by and by ; and sorry are we to say that so
masterly a stroke of Scotch policy should have been attended
with no better success than the artful scheme of the Roman.
But to our story.

A shrewd, cunning, little rascal — but, withal, a pleasant,
laughing, good-humoured one — was Sandy Murray of Kelso
i — 'dead many years ago — but still alive in our memory.
His figure, without being positively deformed, was an odd
one to look at. It was short and thickset, and surmounted
by a round, baboon-featured countenance, with a little
cocked-up projection in the centre, which its owner called
a nose, and which, in this capacity, he supplied with huge
quantities of snuff; keeping it always thickly begrimed with
the superfluous applications — a circumstance which by no
means added to his personal charms. His face, too, which
was of a deep Spanish brown, possessed the peculiar quality
of always appearing greasy and dirty, however often it might
be washed — this operation seeming to have little or no
effect in clearing up its dusky hues. Sandy's prevailing
characteristic was good humour : he was constantly laugh-
ing ; and it was impossible even to look on his odd, squat
little figure, and round, dirty, grinning countenance, lighted
up as it was with a pair of small, twinkling, smirking,
J49. VOL. III.

cunning eyes, without laughing too. To produce this effect,
it Avas not necessary that Sandy should speak a word — it
was quite enough to look at him.

Sandy's mental qualifications were— a great fund of original
humour, or mother-will, as it is sometimes called; a good deal
of tact in managing his own interests ; a great deal of small
cunning ; and, we are sorry to say it, a pretty considerable
dash of duplicity. It was a great pity, these last dark
spots in his character : without them he would have had
much more of our sympathies ; but so it was, and we dare
not do otherwise than represent him as he really was. We
must add, however, that there was a something about him,
altogether, that, let him do what he liked, you could enter-
tain no serious feeling of resentment towards him. There
was so much humour in his cunning, and so much of the
ludicrous in his duplicity, that it was impossible to get angry
with him, even with the knowledge of a flagrant and recent
instance of his insincerity.

Amongst Sandy's more marked failings, was a devoted
attachment to the gill stoup. He drank like a fish, drank
at all hours and seasons, and to any extent that might be
supplied him. He was thus in a constant state of muzziness.
When in this condition, he had a strange propensity to
shouting, to giving voice to his feelings of excitement. He
indulged much in short, abrupt yells, and spoke in sudden
screams, emitted in shrill, cracked tones. Sandy, in short,
was, out and out, an original ; and having thus placed him,
as we imagine, pretty fairly before the reader, we shall
proceed to conduct him through two or three passages
in his life, which form the subject of these pages ; pre-
mising that his age was somewhere about fifty — that he
was, or rather had been originally, a weaver to busi-
ness : we say originally, for, at the period we take up
his history, he had all but abandoned the loom, which,
indeed, had never at any time accorded well with his
mercurial genius. He preferred, infinitely, the stirring life
of a Jack-of-all trades, for which his versatile talents pecu-
liarly qualified him. He, in fact, could and would do any
thing for a day's pay : trim your garden, erect you a new
hen-house, drive your cart if you had one, build you a dry-
dike, and thatch a barn. But Sandy sometimes took to
higher pursuits : he was a frequent contractor for bits of
road, either to make or repair, and for other public jobs of a
similar character. These are particulars which we should
have given before ; but better late than never.

Sandy, it will readily be believed, notwithstanding the
versatility of his genius, was by no means in very flourish-
ing circumstances as regards the circulating medium. Of
this commodity he was always distressingly scarce ; but he
had prospects of a certain kind, that promised, if he could
only succeed in carrying matters on smoothly, to throw
something pretty considerable into his famished exchequer-
These prospects were the anticipated death of a near rela-
tion, and the anticipated bequest to him, in that event, of
some two or three hundred pounds.

This relation, whose name was Anne Gilmour, was an old
woman, a childless widow, who lived by herself .in a small cot-
tage, in a remote and sequestered spot, at the distance of about
a mile from the town of Kelso. Nanny was a personage of
strange, mysterious character, and was more than half sus-

354-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

pected of occasional underhand dealings with the Evil One.
Nothing directlybespeakingsuchaconnection could positively
be laid to her charge. There was no distinct instance of her
having ever exercised a supernatural power ; but it was
pretty generally believed, for all that, that she possessed it.
This was a part of Nanny's character which, for obvious
reasons, Sandy — a frequent visiter of hers — by no means
liked ; for he entertained a wholesome dread of all persons
and things connected with witchery, in which he was a firm
believer. But the inducement held out by the hope of
becoming Nanny's heir was stronger than his fears, and
urged him at once to encounter and support the trials to
which his necessary correspondence with her, in pursuance
of this object, exposed him. But Sandy had other difficul-
ties than this to struggle with : there were rivals in the
field — half a dozen of them — all striving, by extraordinary
assiduity and attention, to cut out Sandy, and each other
too, in Nanny's good graces, and to get hold of her hoards of
half-crowns and shillings — in which shape, it was believed,
was the greater part, if not the whole, of her wealth. It,
therefore, required all Sandy's tact to enable him to keep
his ground amongst so many competitors, whose wits, more-
over., were sharpened to the finest edge by the exciting
object of competition. But Sandy pursued an excellent
line of policy : he coaxed, and he wheedled, and he sym-
pathised, and he comforted, and he joked, all with such an
admirable resemblance of sincerity and good faith, that he
distanced all his rivals, and stood decidedly the prime
favourite of Nanny Gilmour. Sandy's prospects, in short,
were capital — all but certain ; and much did Sandy, who
knew it well, inwardly rejoice thereat. An interminable
vista of gills opened up to his delighted optics, and a deli-
cious hazyfuturity of drunkenness threw its congenial atmo-
sphere around — making up, altogether, to Sandy's eyes, a
vision of surpassing beatitude. But things turn out very
strangely in this world sometimes, and curious truths fre-
quently come in the place of fond delusions : a striking
instance of this now falls in our way.

Calling one evening on Nanny Gilmour, Sandy was very
much gratified by the extreme kindness of her manner to-
wards him. It was much greater than usual. There was,
too, an air of confiding familiarity in all she said and did,
together with a singular peculiarity and amplitude of mean-
ing, which convinced Sandy that a crisis was at hand — that
she was about to disclose some secrets respecting her hidden
treasures, and, amongst these, that he was destined one day
to become their lawful lord. He had no doubt, in short,
from her manner on this eventful evening, that, if Nanny
was not actually going to hand him over her cash on the
spot, she was at least going to tell him that it would cer-
tainly one day be his and no one's else. Under this impres-
sion, Sandy got amazingly happy. He thought he actually
heard the jingling of the fine old massivehalf-crowns, and that
he felt them weighing down his coat pockets. His feelings
were most delightful. His little twinkling eyes sparkled
with rapture, and he grinned the satisfaction which he could
not with propriety openly express. He fancied, we have
said, that he saw a consummation approaching. He was
not mistaken. After some time, Nanny Gilmour took him
by the hand with a friendly grasp, and thus addressed him : —

" Sandy Murray, ye've aye been a kind freen to me."
Sandy smiled, or rather grinned, in his usual way, shook his
head, and said, he "hadna been half sae kind's he should
hae been ; that, had it been in his power, he wad hae dune
ten times mair ; that he really had a wonderfu resuect
for her ; he kent nane that he liked better."

" I weel believe ye, Sandy," continued Nanny ; " and I'm
sure your regard for me canna surpass mine for you, Sandy,
because I've seen in a' your conduct to me that ye hae been
disinterested."

" Just maist particularly sae, Nanny," interrupted Sandy,

catching the old woman by the hand, in the enthusiasm of
the moment, and, in the fulness of his heart, pressing it
affectionately. " Just maist particularly sae ; I'm nane o*
yer selfish kind, Nanny, that barter their friendship for
filthy lucre; that canna do a kindness without expectin a
return — Gude forgie them ! Na, na — Sandy Murray's no the
man for that. Disinterested friendship, or nane, for him—-
that's his motto, Nanny."

" Ay, Sandy," quoth Nanny ; " but how few o' your
kind do we find in this selfish world ! There's been a number
o' folk gaun aboot me, as ye ken ; but, my certy, ye'll see a
bonny skailin o' them whan they come to ken the truth.
They hae been a' mistaen ; but it was nane o' my business
to put them richt." Sandy here tried to look as grave and
disinterested as he could, and to conceal the satisfaction he
really felt; for he naturally enough understood what Nanny
had said, to mean, that he was to be her sole heir, and that
it was from this circumstance the disappointment of his
rivals was to arise. Nanny went on — " It'll sune be seen,
Sandy, wha loved me for my ain sake, and wha for the sake
o' what they ihocht I had." This " thocht I had" rather
startled Sandy a little; but, though he looked something — he
could not help it — he said nothing. "It'll no be 'you,
Sandy, however, the discovery 'ill hae ony effeck on. Ye're
far owre true a freen for that." Sandy did not know very
well what to make of these compliments ; they seemed of
rather ambiguous meaning. " Ye'll staun by me to the last,
and ye'll get yer reward." Sandy's spirits rose again. It
was all right yet. " Yes, ye'll get yer reward — I'll promise
ye that." Here Sandy thought it necessary to protest
against his having any eye to reward of any kind ; adding,
that such a thought had never for a moment entered his
mind. " I believe it," said Nanny ; " but, nevertheless,
ye'll get it — ay, ye'll get it. Providence never allows a
guid deed to go unrewarded." Sandy did not altogether
like this spiritual allusion. He would rather it had been
a little more in the temporal way. He would, in short,
rather have taken Nanny's own guarantee. " Now, Sandy,
listen to me," continued Nanny, laying her hand impres-
sively on Sandy's knee, " I'm gaun to tell ye a secret that
'ill gar some folk look gayan queer" — Sandy laughed, but
began to weary for Nanny's coming to the point — " and
that secret 'ill be fand in the favour I'm gaun to ask o' ye,
Sandy."

" Onything in my power," muttered Sandy, who was
now in instant expectation of hearing himself named
Nanny's heir. " I'm sure it wad gie me such pleasure — mak
me sae happy," &c.

" I'm sure o' that, Sandy — I'm sure o' that ; and it was
countin on yer friendship that made me fix on you to
assist me in my straits ; for I kent ye wad do't wi' richt
guid will. But ye'll guide it weel Sandy — ye'll guide it
weel, when I'm awa. I ken that."

Here Nanny's feelings overcame her, and she raised the
corner of her apron to her eyes. Sandy, though delighted
with this, the broadest hint he had yet got, was puzzled
what reply to make ; for he felt that he could not, in plain
terms, refer, in his answer, to Nanny's cash, since Nanny's
own reference, though sufficiently intelligible, was yet ob-
scure and equivocal. He, therefore, contented himself with
saying that —

" He hoped that he wad never mak a bad use o' ony-
thing she was pleased to entrust him wi'."

" I'm sure ye winnn, I'm sure ye winna," continued
Nanny. " Weel, then, Sandy, after mony a lang and
weary thocht on the matter, and after weighin carefully the
claims o' a' them that ca' themsels my freens, I hae come
to the determination" (Sandy was gaspin for breath) << o'
bequeathin to you, Sandy, at my death," (Sandy's excite-
ment was increasing to a painful height,) "as a mark o' my
regard for and confidence in you, and as a proof o' my

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

355

gratitude for a' your past kindnesses — I say, Sandy, that,
for thae considerations, I hae determined on leaving to you
my puir black cat, Tibby, there !"

And Nanny again clapped the corner of her apion to her
eyes. Her black cat ! A legacy of a black cat ! And
was this the end of it ? Were Sandy's high-wrought ex-
pectations to be gratified so far only as they could be grati-
fied by the bequest of a black cat ? It appeared so ; and,
oh ! that we possessed some extraordinary power of deline-
ation that would approach nearer to the fact than language,
Ao describe the looks and feelings of the mortified legatee,
when he found the aperture through which he had been
peeping at that elysium which he hoped so soon to enter,
darkened, stopped up with a black cat ! Having no such
power, however, at command, and despairing of any com-
bination of words producing the effect we would desire,
we leave it to the reader's imagination to picture forth the
look of utter dismay with which Sandy Murray heard of
the extraordinary bequest that was intended him. He said
nothing, however. He couldn't — he was speechless. In
the meantime, Nanny, apparently too much engrossed by
her own feelings to notice his dismay, went on with still
more comforting intelligence : —

" Noo, Sandy, my man," she said, " ye maun consider
that I hae especially favoured you in consigning Tibby to
your care ; for mony a ane, I daresay, has had an ee upon
the puir beast, and has courted me in the hope o' gettin
her ; but I hae cheated them a', and sair will be their dis-
appointment. But I hae mair to speak to ye aboot yet,
Sandy." Sandy once more cocked his ears. A little re-
flection had so far reconciled him to the legacy of the black
cat as to determine him to conceal his mortification, in the
hope that, by humouring Nanny in this particular, he
might yet attain the great object of his wishes. " I hae
mair to speak to ye aboot yet, Sandy. I hae the favour to
speak aboot. Trusting in you as a friend, I mean to ask
your help, in confidence, in a thing I wadna just like a'
the Avorld to ken. Could ye assist me onyway, think ye,
Sandy, in gettin on the parish ?"

"On the parish, Nanny!" shouted Sandy, in a tone of
deep despair, and with a look of ludicrous amazement — his
fortitude and self-command being quite unequal to this
most unexpected announcement of poverty, where he had
confidently deemed there was wealth. " Gude save us ! the
parish, Nanny !" he went on ; " what need, in the name o' a'
that's extraordinary, hae ye o' the parish ? Haena ye walth
o' your ain ? — mair than '11 keep ye in ease a' yer days ?"

" It's a mistak, Sandy, it's a mistak," replied Nanny,
gravely ; " I believe folk hae thocht sae, but, to my sorrow,
they hae been wrang. Whar was I to get money ? Whar,
in a' the world, was I to get money ? It's weel kent that
my guidman has been dead thae twenty years ; and it couldna
be expeckit that the sma' matter he left me at his death
was to last me till now. It wad be unreasonable. Na, na,
Sandy — the ne'er a penny past me hae I. The last half-croon
I had was changed yesterday ; and whar I'm to get the next
is mair than I can tell. Sae ye see, Sandy, I haena thocht
o' comin on the parish till it was full time — till there was
nae ither resource left me."

" It's a bad business," replied Sandy, gravely, " and's
what I'm sure naebody ever dreamt o'. Everybody thocht
ye had pecks o' siller. Gude save us ! it's an awfu owreturn
this."

"Oh I'm sure it's nae disappointment to you, Sandy — ye're
owre disinterested a freen for that."

Oti, no," grumphed Sandy ; "but, heth, I'm sittin owre
late, Nanny — I was forgettin how the nicht was gaun.
Guid nicht to ye, Nanny ! guid nicht !" And lie bounced from
his chair, and hurried to the door.

" Will ye mind to speak to the minister aboot gettin me
on the parish?" shouted Nanny after him.

"Ou, ay," replied Sandy, drily, and still hurrying out.
"And whan'll ye come for the cut, Sandy ?" bawled out
Xanny.

" The morn," roared Sandy back, but in a tone and with
a manner that indicated pretty plainly that the morn which
should see Sandy coming for the cat, was likely to be
rather a distant one. Sandy had now got fairly clear of the
:iouse, and, directing his steps homewards, had already en-
tered on a series of cogitations regarding the events of the
evening. These he opened with a preliminary round of un-
connected curses, not loud but deep, on Nanny Gilmour.
Having expended these, his reflections became, if not more
connected, at least more composed and methodical.

" Ay," he muttered to himself, after a long pause, during
which he had been thinking too intensely of his disappoint-
ment to give utterance to his feelings — " my feth, but this
is a bonny begunk ! Wha ever wad hae dreamt o't ? Me
as sure o' the half-croons as if I had them in my pouch —
the very sound o' their clinkin was in my lugs — an' to be
bilked o' them this way, after cuddlin up the auld deevil
just to the giein point ! It's a sair trial ! No a boddle !
Oh, no ! — the deil a ane ! It's just Sandy's auld luck.
But catch me darkenin her door again. An' as for her
black cat"

Here Sandy, finding himself utterly unable to find lan-
guage strong enough to express his contempt of the cat,
finished the sentence by a simultaneous shake of his head
and his fist, which, when translated, meant, if he had had
the said black cat in his power at that moment, he would
rather have astonished her by some proceeding or another.

Leaving Sandy now to pursue his way homewards, and to
the indulgence of such reflections as those we have put
upon record, we shall return for a moment to Nanny Gil-
mour, to see what is going on there. On entering, we find the
old woman seated on a chair before her own fire, gazing
thoughtfully on the embers, with her arms folded across her
breast. On her withered countenance there is a faint smile,
accompanied by a sort of humorous expression, which might
indicate either the contemplation or accomplishment of some
piece of waggery. After sitting for some time in this attitude,
the old woman suddenly gave way to a decided laugh —
hearty, but not loud. The peristrephic picture revolving
before her mind's eye, had evidently turned up something
irresistibly ludicrous ; and its further effect was to urge her
to express the thoughts which it suggested.

" My troth, I think I hae settled him, at ony rate ! The
dirty, drunken, selfish body ! My word," continued Nanny,
now chuckling with increased glee, " he'll no come here
in a hurry again, houndin after my bits o' bawbees. The
parish and" the black cat hae dune for Sandy." And Nanny
laughed outright at her own cunning, in having thus thrown
him off the scent ; for such was the sole design of the part
she had acted towards that worthy ; and., as we have seen,
it had been successful.

Having made this digression, and thereby given the
reader a piece of information of which it was necessary he
should be possessed, we return to our hero, Sandy. As
Nanny had conjectured, Sandy was fairly cured of his
fortune-hunting. For some days he never looked near her —
nor would he, when he did, but for a circumstance which
we will now proceed to detail.

In going home at nights, immediately after the occur-
rences which we have described, Sandy, whose way brought
him in view of Nanny's cottage, though it lay at a consider-
able distance, observed a light always burning to a very late
hour, in one of her small windows. This was an unusual
thing, and, being an unusual thing, it attracted Sandy's no-
tice in a very particular manner. Being on these occasions — •
that is, when going home — generally half-seas-over, his prac-
tice was to stand upon the road, and contemplate Nanny s
light, for a long time, with a face of drunken perplexity

356

TALES OF THE BORDERS

Who could say precisely what was passing through that
muddled head, as its owner stared with dazed and lack-
lustre °yo, ft the shining phenomenon, or lighted penny
candle— as the reader chooses — in Nanny's window ? No
one- ~h was impossible. Yet it was evident that the said
lighted candle afforded matter of deep and serious cogitation
to Sandy ; for, in the fulness of his thoughts on the sub-
ject, and in the incapacity of his tongue to give utterance to
these thoughts, he stood nodding his head at Nanny's light,
accompanying the motion occasionally by some abortive at-
tempts at speech. He would willingly have spoken, if he
could ; but some half-dozen gills forbade it. The light, in
short, had excited his curiosity to a very annoying pitch —
to so high a pitch that he, one night, when he was fully
drunker than usual, determined on diverging from his road,
on an exploratory expedition. In other words, he deter-
mined on stealing up to Nanny's cottage, and having a peep
through the lighted window, to see what she was about.
This Sandy would have done before, but that he stood in
awe of Nanny's reputation for underhand dealings with a
certain personage who shall be nameless, and to whom
we before alluded. This consideration had hitherto de-
terred him, as we have said, from the bold measure which
he now contemplated ; but an extra supply of stimulant
had furnished him, on this occasion, with the necessary de-
gree of courage, and this accession of courage prompted
the attempt. After gazing on the light for a little time, on
the particular night in question, Sandy boldly commenced
his march towards it, by striking off the road, and taking
his way through some fields that lay between and the cot-
tage. To a man in Sandy's peculiar condition, the route
was by no means an easy one. Sandy found that it was
not. He fell fifty times — sometimes into a hedge, and some-
times into a ditch. He had great difficulty, too, in getting
over the dikes ; or rather, perhaps, in getting on them.
He had none whatever in getting off; for he generally de-
scended by the run. After performing innumerable feats
of this and a similar kind, Sandy succeeded in gaining the
little kail-yard, situated immediately behind Nanny's cot-
tage. This he entered; and, as it was now plain sailing, soon
found himself close upon the object of his curiosity, which
he approached on tiptoe, and with as little noise as possible.
Having reached the window, which was a very small one,
consisting of only two little panes of glass, Sandy placed
his face gently against one of them, shaded his right eye
with his hand, and sent his vision, like a shot, as it were,
into the interior of the apartment, through an unguarded
opening in a little white curtain on the inside, which was
intended to prevent the gratification of such impertinent
and prying curiosity. But the opening alluded to, rendered
't unavailing for this purpose. The whole apartment was
laid open to Sandy's gaze : and extraordinary was the sight
that presented itself to that adventurous worthy. On a
small table, close by the fire, was an immense number of
piles of silver coin, of various denominations, and, amongst
these, a large quantity of the half-crowns which had taken
such a hold of Sandy's imagination. Seated at this table,
with spectacles on nose, and busily employed, apparently,
in assorting these coins, and classifying them according to
their value, was Nanny Gilmour. She was overhauling
her hoards — that was clear; and Sandy had caught her in the
act. The effect this astounding sig'it had upon Sandy, it
would not be easy to describe. His respiration became
thick and difficult, and his eye — the particular eye that was
employed in viewing the treasure within, the other being
shut — stood fixed immovably in its socket, glaring with fierce
eagerness on the dazzling display of Nanny's hoarded coin.
Sandy himself felt, in the meantime, as if he could have
darted through the little window, and clutched in his in-
tense grasp the glittering wealth that lay before him. He
felt a sudden itchiness all over him, and actually, but un-

consciously, licked his lips, as if he were looking on sonit.
turn-out of tempting edibles. On recovering a little com-
posure, and beginning to breathe a little more freely—-

Oh, ye auld deceivin sinner !" muttered Sandy to him-
self— " I hae catched ye now ; and my name's no Sandy
Murray if I dinna come roun' ye yet. I'll mak a guid use
o' this night's discovery, or blame me. What an ass I was
to believe ye, ye wizened miserable wretch ! But I aye
jaloused ye. The parish ! — 'od, ye could buy the parish, ye
auld limmer, in place o' coming on't as a pauper. Nanny,
my woman," added Sandy, emphatically, though under
breath, after a pause, " your black cat '11 get a mutchkin o'
sweet milk frae me every day. I'll mak it weel waired
siller, if I'm no mistaen."

In the meantime, Nanny, unconscious of the supervision
which Sandy was exercising over her proceedings, was going
on diligently with her work of assorting the coin, and, in,
connection with this process, lifted a certain small leathern
bag from the floor, and placed it on the table before her.
Having done this, she proceeded to undo the string or thong
with which it was secured, and then, inverting the bag,
poured out its contents, a torrent of guineas, on the table.
On the secret onlooker, this display of gold — for all the
other riches on the table were in silver — had a sudden and
most extraordinary effect. Forgetting in an instant where
he was, and the circumstances in which he was placed, and
unable to restrain the feelings Avhich the gorgeous sight
excited, Sandy, on beholding it, emitted a yell of surprise
and delight, from a similar uncontrollable impulse with
that which caused the fatal exclamation of Tarn O'Shanter
in Alloway Kirk. In the next instant, Sandy was invisible.
How ? — had he cut and run ? No, he had not. He had
sunk into the bowels of the earth. Down he had gone, with
the rapidity of a flash of lightning. Sandy was swallowed
up by a draw-well. Explain. We will. Immediately be-
neath the window at which Sandy had placed himself, there
was a draw-well — fortunately not a very deep one ; and, on
the decayed boards which covered this well, Sandy, who
either knew nothing of its being there, or had forgotten the
circumstance, had been standing, during the whole tim*
he had been superintending Nanny's operations. The
boards, at any time unable to carry much weight, had been
but barely able to support Sandy in a quiescent state., and
were wholly unequal to the task of bearing him in a state
of excitement. Now, Sandy, unaware of the particular and
precarious nature of his footing, had accompanied the yell
just mentioned with the corresponding action of a vigorous
leap ; and the consequences were what we have described.
Down went the boards, and down went Sandy into some-
where about five feet of fine cool spring water. But Sandy
did not perform this operation without making it known
that he felt rather unpleasant. On getting his head above
water, after making the first plunge, he emitted sundry roars
of a most hideous and appalling tone. Greatly alarmed by
these dreadful noises, and guessing what had happened,
though totally unaware of who the victim was, Nanny,
after having hurriedly thrust her treasure into a place ot
concealment, hastened to the scene of Sandy's disaster, with
a candle in her hand.

" Lord preserve me ! Sandy Murray, is that you ?" she
said, peering down into the well, where Sandy was standing
up to the chin in water. " How on a' the earth cam ye
there ? What war ye seekin hereawa ?"

If guid intentions, Nanny," replied Sandy, " war con-
sidered as they ocht to be, this wadna hae happened. I hae -
na been able to get rest in my bed since I saw you, neither
nicht nor day, for thinkin o' your unhappy state, and I was
just comin to ca' upon you, to talk owre matters wi' you
again, and, in doin this, I mistook my way, and this has
been the upshot, or rather doon-shot o't. But Lord's sake,
woman, try and get me oot o' this ; for my teeth are gauu

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

357

like a pair o' nutcrackers. Sax inches deeper, an' it wad
hae been a' owre wi' Sandy Murray. But he wad hae died
in a guid cause — comin to succour the distressed."

" That is a comfort, to be sure," said Nanny ; " but we
maun see an' get ye oot some way or anither, for I warrant
ye're no owre comfortable there."

" Feth, ye may say that," replied Sandy. " It's as
cauld quarters as ever I was in. This water's no Welsh
flannel, Nanny !"

" Na, troth it," said Nanny.

" If there had been a soup whisky in't, I wadna hae
cared sae muckle," said Sandy ; " I could hae been takin
a toothfu, in the meantime, just to keep my head abune."

" But how, in Gude's name, am I to get ye oot, Sandy ?"
exclaimed Nanny, now becoming alive to the difficulty of
this operation ; for the well, though not deep in water, was
of considerable depth, taking the dry and the wet together ;
and Sandy's weight was no trifle.

" Hae ye nae sic a thing as a lether aboot ye, Nanny?"
said Sandy.

" No ane," replied Nanny ; " but I'll tell ye what I'll
do — I'll tak baud o' ye by the coat-neck, Sandy, and ye'll
catch by the sides as weel as ye can, an" I'll try an' help
ye oot that way."

" Catch by the sides !" said Sandy, eyeing the smooth
walls of solid masonry by which the well was lined. " I
wad need cats' claws to do that, Nanny. It's as smooth's
a plastered wa' !"

" But ye maun try, Sandy ; — there's nae ither way that
I ken o' !" — And Nanny, kneeling, stretched her arm down
into the well, and, seizing Sandy by the collar, called upon
him to second her efforts by taking what holds he could get.
Obeying the directions given him, Sandy fastened on the
side of the well like a limpet ; where, notwithstanding his
despair of finding such accommodation, he did discover cer-
tain openings and crevices, which promised to be of essential
service to him — and they were. By their aid, and Nanny's
together — she holding stoutly by his coat-neck the while —
Sandy was fast emerging from the well, and had got his
nose on a level with the surface of the ground, when a
treacherous projection, to which he had trusted for his last
and greatest effort, gave way, and down he went again, with
a tremendous plunge, into his old quarters — Nanny's strength
being wholly unable to counteract his proneness to descend.

" Waughl phroo, phroo, phroo !" sRouted Sandy, on get-
ting his mouth clear again of the water. '' Am I to be
drowned here, like a rat or a blin kittlin? Phroo, phroo ! I'm
gettin as stiff's a poker. Grip again, Nanny — grip again,
and let's try't ance mair. If I dinna mak it oot tins time,
it's a' owre wi' Sandy Murray."

Doing as she was desired, Nanny again seized Sandy by
the collar, again Sandy fastened on the wall, and, this
time, their united efforts were crowned with complete
success. After a desperate struggle — during which Sandy
was more than once in imminent danger of returning
whence he came — he was fairly and safely landed on terra
firma. On this consummation taking place, Sandy proposed
going into the house ; but this was a proposal which Nanny,
for obvious reasons, by no means approved of. Sandy, for
no less obvious reasons, rather pressed the point; but
Nanny was firm, and insisted that he should immediately
run home and change his clothes. Sandy declared that he
cared not for that, if he could only do her a service, and
that he wanted to speak about. Nanny said it was mair
than his life was worth, and that she would by no means
permit so dear a friend to remain another moment in the
situation he was in. Finding himself effectually foiled by
the dexterous fencing of the old woman, Sandy reluct-
antly gave up the point, and, saying that he would call on
the " following day, shook Nanny by the hand with a
cordiality which he intended as an expression of the in-

tensity of his feelings, and of the warmth and sincerity of his
friendship, and took his departure. Faithful to his promise,
and keener than ever on the hunt after Nanny's balf-
crowns, his scent being now sure, Sandy called on Nanny
on the following day. This call Nanny expected ; for she
had a ^ shrewd guess of the facts of the case, as regarded
Sandy's clandestine visit on the previous night. She had
no doubt, in short, that he had seen what she was about
on that occasion; and as little doubt had she, that he would
immediately renew his disinterested attentions to her. She
was not mistaken. With a grave, sympathizing face, as
long as a fiddle-back, Sandy entered, and, taking a seat—

" O Nanny, my woman," he said, " but I am wae for
ye ! I'm just distressed beyond measure aboot ye. To
think that you wha hae been a' yer days accustomed to
decency and comfort, should be driven, in yer auld days,
to throw yersel on the parish, and to leeve on its miser-

Sandy wept again.
" But ye'll no want a freen as lang as ye hae me ; and as
such, Nanny," continued Sandy, " I'm gaun to ask a favour
o' ye, which ye maunna refuse."

" What's that ?" said Nanny.

<f It's just that ye wad let me tak that puir beast hame
wi' me" — pointing to the celebrated black cat — " that I may
hae something o' yours to shew kindness to. Puir thing,
puir thing !" he went on, apostrophizing the unconscious
animal, and at the same time stroking it gently with his
hand ; " ye'se no want yer mouthfu o' milk wi' me, nor
ony thing else that I can gie ye. I'll aye respeck ye for
yer mistress's sake."

This was a proposition which Nanny was not altogether
prepared for ; but, having no particular regard for the cat,
and being, besides, curious to see how far her visiter's cun-
ning wouid carry him, it was one to which she at once
acceded ; and, when Sandy went away, which he did soon
after, it was in company with Nanny Gilmour's black cat,
which he carried securely under his arm, in the firm belief
that he carried a powerful agent in influencing the destiny
of Nanny's half-crowns. Sandy, in short, believed that, in
securing the cat, he was securing a friend at court ; and,
under this impression, he determined on treating her with
every degree of attention.

Sandy, however, had not gone far with his precious bur-
den, when she began to shew symptoms of entire disapproval
of the change of place which was thus forced upon her.
These symptoms consisted in certain vigorous twistings and
writhings, which, as she was rather a powerful animal, and
particularly well armed about the paws, every one of her
claws being like a large-sized fish-hook, Sandy had consi-
derable difficulty in subduing. He had to stop repeatedly
on the road, to determine the question, which the cat seemed
resolved to bring to issue, of who should be master ; and
he only succeeded in establishing his own superiority, on
each occasion, after a severe contest, in which his hands
were dreadfully torn up by the claws of his insurgent pro-
tegee. Sandy would fain have given Tibby the coup de
grace at once, by a gentle squeeze on the throat ; but,
deeming her now an effective instrument for working out
his own good fortune, he not only forbore this extreme pro-
ceeding, but held her with a death's gripe, lest she should
escape from him. For some time after one of those con-
tests of which we have spoken, Tibby remained as quiet as
if she were lying at a mouse-hole, and Sandy congratulated
himself on having accomplished a decisive victory over her
rebellious propensities. Deceitful calm ! — premature con-
gratulation ! — Tibby had but been meditating more deter-
mined proceedings. These proceedings she now opened by
a mew of deep, deliberate ferocity ; at the same time dis-
playing a mouthful of teeth, in perfect correspondence with

358

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

her claws — long, sharp, and curved. She next wheeled
herself adroitly round on her hack/ and, after two or three
violent struggles, succeeded in getting up the length of
Sandy's face, which she immediately red-lined in a very
picturesque manner ; Sandy, in the meanwhile, endeavour-
ing to abbreviate her operations by some desperate pulling
at her tail, which, however, had the effect only of increas-
ing the ferocity of her holds. All this, however, was but
the work of an instant. In the next, the cat had cleared a
passage by Sandy's shoulder, leapt on the ground, and
bolted. And now commenced one of the finest runs per-
haps that the annals of sporting can produce. Bleeding
and disfigured as he was, Sandy immediately gave chase.
He would not lose the cat for the world. It was a legacy
he was chasing, not a cat ; and his exertions were propor-
tioned to the object. The start at the outset was a fair
one. It was in an open field, and Tibby had the lead
by about a dozen yards, gained by the time Avhich Sandy
took to cross the ditch and go through the hedge which
separated the said field from the road. The open ground
being gained, however, the chase exhibited a very animated
and impressive spectacle. Sandy was not naturally very
well constructed for running ; nature apparently never having
intended him for such violent exercise, if one might judge
by the extreme shortness of his legs, and the immense
breadth of his feet ; but he got on amazingly, nevertheless,
his extreme eagerness and anxiety to overtake his prey
supplying, in a great measure, his deficiencies in physical
adaptation.

Notwithstanding all Sandy's efforts, however, it was evi-
dent that Tibby was fast distancing him ; and Sandy him-
self, becoming aware of this, involuntarily added threats
and coaxings, addressed of course to the object of his pur-
suit, to the exertions he was making. These he inter-
mingled with sundry unintelligible and almost unrecordable
exclamations, uttered in his loudest key.

" Hoo. hoo ! wheeou ! hurra ! hist, hist ! ha, ha ! — stop, ye
brute ! stop, ye black brute ! or I'll knock the harns out o' ye ;
stop ! or I'll tak the nine lives o' ye. Haou ! heeou ! puir
pussy ! puir pussy ! Tibbv, Tibby ! poos, poos, poos, puir
pussy ! puir pussy !"

Regardless of these insidious attempts to work upon her
feelings, Tibby held vigorously on her way, and Sandy did
the best he could to hold on his. But the pair were not
long permitted to keep all the fun to themselves. Sandy
had, in the course of the run, committed sundry trespasses,
and this had the effect of bringing sundry farmers and farm-
servants after him, from different points, all shouting and
hallooing, in tones of the fiercest anger, and joining in pur-
suit of the trespasser. Still, this was not all. Several dogs,
one after the other, came also on the stage, from various
quarters, and most cordially seconded Sandy's views, in en-
deavouring to overtake Tibby. By and by, the numbers of
both dogs and men greatly increased, until there was at
length what might be fairly reckoned a very full field. The
sight was now altogether really a grand one. First, came
Tibby, now raised and distracted with terror ; next, came
a troop of collies, yelping and howling most vociferously ;
next, came the principal personage himself. Sandy, bare-
headed, for he had lost his hat, with a face as red as a north-
west moon, and blowing like a grampus ; and, lastly, came
a dozen or two of farm-servants, labourers, colliers, &c. &c.,
whom the exciting sight of the chase had induced to join it.
Scarcely any of these knew what the running was for ; but
this did not hinder them adding to the animation of the scene,
by an unintermitting series of whoops and yells, and shout
of all sorts, and in every imaginable tone. Those, again, who
did know the specific object of the chase — at least in so far
that Sandy was in pursuit of a black cat, although for what
purpose they could not conjecture — kindly encouraged him
by the legitimate tally-hos of the sporting community.

In the meantime, wholly absorbed by his eagerness to se-
cure Tibby, which he felt to be all but the same thing as
securing his legacy — or, at least, that the loss of her, or her
sustaining any injury, would bo fatal to his hopes — Sandy
paid no heed to the immense escort which had thus so sud-
denly grown, as it were, around him, but continued the
chase, shouting and addressing Tibby, at intervals, in the
way already described. But Sandy's task, all along an ar-
duous one, was now ten times more so ; for he had not only
to maintain his speed, but to make the most desperate efforts
to keep the dogs from rushing in upon Tibby, and settling
the business at once, by worrying her on the spot. This
was tremendous exercise, and it was not rendered a whit
more pleasant or easy by the absolute necessity there was
for accompanying it with incessant shouting, and screaming,
and threatening, in order to render the deterring system
more effectual. Nor was the ferment to which we have
alluded, at all lessened by the circumstance that no one
could tell his neighbour what had happened, or what
was going on. All was mystery and perplexity. " It's
Sandy Murray after a black cat," was, indeed, frequently to
be heard ; but this conveyed little or no information, and
was besides so absurd and inadequate an explanation of such
a tremendous turn-out, that it was considered no explanation
at all. Nobody, in fact, believed it. Nor were those who
actually saw Sandy in hot pursuit of Tibby, much farther
forward on the score of intelligence ; for the natural questions,
" Whose cat is it ?" '''What does he want with the cat ?"
" What can he mean by chasing the cat ?" were still to be
answered ; and without these answers, their information
was incomplete.

In the meantime, however, matters were gradually coming,
of their own accord, to a crisis with Tibby. At one parti-
cular part of her progress, she was intercepted and sur-
rounded by the rnob. A ring was formed around her, and a
course of treatment commenced, amidst the most tremendous
shouting and laughter, which it was impossible she could
long survive. A score or two of cudgels were on the alert,
in every direction, to greet her, the moment she came within
their reach ; while those who had no sticks performed the
operation with their feet, and not less effectually. Poor
Tibby was thus placed in a dreadful situation. Flying
wildly round the ring, she essayed all points, with the
view of effecting an egress, but in vain — the phalanx was
as close as a stone wall ; and, instead of getting out, in
making these attempts, she only brought down on herself
the thwack of a cudgel, which laid her sprawling for a second
in the mud, or received a kick, which sent her clean over
to the other side of the ring.

But what was the unfortunate animal's guardian doing all
this time ? What was Sandy about ? Was he making no
attempts to rescue Tibby from the hands and feet of her
ruthless persecutors ? He was. Sandy was not wanting in
his duty at this interesting crisis — this terrible moment.
He also was in the centre of the ring, around which he was
running, nearly as madly as the cat, in vain endeavours to
get her into his possession, and to protect her from the merci-
less violence of her assailants.

" Let alane the puir brute, ye blackguards ! Every
thump ye gie that cat's a pound oot o' my pouch ; and if ye
kill her, it's t\va hunner pound dead to me, if it's a penny.
Haud yer hauns, ye cruel monsters ! Let alane the cat,
will ye" ! What harm has the puir beast dune ye ?"
shouted Sandy, till he was hoarse, as he distractedly flew
from side to side of the fatal ring, in his futile attempts to
arrest the system of persecution under which Tibby was
suffering.

But this was a state of matters which could not last long.
Neither did it. The unhappy cat, although she had had
fifty lives, instead of nine, could not have saved the tenth
part of one of them. In less than ten minutes af;er Tibby

TALES OK THE BORDERS.

359

had been surrounded in the way described, she was ren
dered incapable of further effort, and only occasionall
feebly moving a leg, or emitting a scarcely audible mew
impassively permitted herself to be knocked about, at th
will and pleasure of her tormentors. But Tibby was no
now the only object ef the mischievous spirit of the mob
Sandy came in also for his share of what was going. H
had said some offensive things, and the consequence was,
series of insidious attacks on his person, such as pulling hi
coat-tails, tripping up his heels, and shoving him about i
that lively, perpetual-motion sort of manner, which is calle
putting through the mill. This was treatment, however, t
which Sandy was not, by any means, disposed to submi
quietly. He resisted — he gave battle ; and the conse
quence was, a severe, but most unequal contest, in whic
Sandy received a couple of black eyes, and had his coat ton
nearly to shreds off his back. The finale was at hand. Th
crowd, which had been gradually contracting round Sand
and the expiring cat, now fairly closed in upon them, wit!
the most dreadful shouts and yells. Tibby was trample<
under foot, and the last spark of life that remained in he
miserable, draggled carcase, was extinguished. Sandy, in
the meantime, had been also floored, and was in a fair waj
of sharing the fate of his cat, when a body of constable
forced their way into the crowd, and saved" him from the
last result, by making him prisoner. Having been place<
upon his pins, Sandy was conducted before a magistrate, t(
undergo judicial precognition as to the disturbance intr
which the town had been thrown, and of which it appearec
he was the sole cause. On his being presented to the ma-
gistrate, Sandy's appearance greatly surprised and not a
little amused that worthy person ; and, to say truth, it was
by no means prepossessing, as the reader will readily con-
ceive, from the picture we have already drawn of his bat-
tered and dismantled condition.

'•' Well, sir," said the magistrate, doing the best he coult
to assume a becoming official gravity, " what is this you have
been about, creating tumult, and disturbing the peace of the
town ?"

" Please your Honour, sir," replied Sandy, " it was just a

black cat, sir — a black cat, that"

" A what, sir ?" interrupted the magistrate.
" A black cat, sir," repeated Sandy, more emphatically ;
" it was just a black cat that was the cause o't a' ; and such
another job I haena had this while^ nor will I forget it
in a hurry. See, yer Honour, sir, what a pair o' een I hae
gotten, yer Honour — and see," he continued, and now
looking wofully down at the fragment of a coat which still
affectionately clung to him, " there's a' that's left me o' a
guid fustian-coat, that wasna a preen the waur o' the wear
whan this collyshangy began."

Here the magistrate, thinking — and the reader, we dare
say, will agree with him — that Sandy was speaking some-
what irrelevantly, interposed, and insisting on his keeping
closer to the point, succeeded in eliciting from him the
history of the cat. In giving this history, however, Sandy
concealed the real motives for his pertinacity in the cha'se,
attributing it solely to his esteem and respect for the " puir
beast's worthy mistress, whom he had lang kent, and for
whom he had the regard o' a brither."

Having given this explanation, Sandy Avas dismissed, with
a caution never to try cat-hunting in the town again ; and
a hint that, if he would indulge in such, recreations, he must
choose a place where they would create neither disturbance
nor annoyance.

Arriving at this point in our history of Sandy Murray
and the black cat, we pause a little, to join that worthy
person in a few reflections which he made on his way home
on the subject of the day's occurrences, and on his own
particular position.

In the first place, it struck Sandy as odd, and as rather

hard m its way, that he should have been exposed to so
much suffering, toil, and damage for so simple a thing as
taking charge of a cat, and that so mighty a stir should
have arisen out of so trivial a circumstance as the escape of
that cat. But so it was. Who could deny it ? In the
next place, Sandy began to think that legacy-hunting,
even in the case of an « auld wife" like Nanny Gilmour
either was not so easy a thing as he had imagined it, or
that his own particular efforts, in that way, were under the
ban of some evil spirit or other; for, in the little active
practice he had had in this line of business, he had been
first nearly drowned, and now as nearly murdered • and
to crown all, he was removed farther than ever from his
object, he believed, by the violent and untimely death of

co y'j . - thlS " untoward" event was the next subject
ot Sandy s inward cogitation. How was he to face Nanny
Gilmour ?— how inform her of the death of her favourite ?
She would disinherit him instantly, and without remorse.
This was all but certain ; and Sandy felt convinced that it
was so. What was to be done ? Sandy thought intensely
for a few seconds. An idea struck him. He thought again.
" 'Od, I'll try it. Nae harm in that, ony way." What will he
try ? What is it there's " nae harm in ?" Why, in palming
another cat on Nanny, for her own — another black cat. To
this resolution, then, Sandy came, and he determined forth-
with to act on it.

Sandy, however, found it a more difficult thing to fall in
with Tibby's likeness than he had imagined. There were
plenty of black cats to be found ; but, unfortunately, Tibby
had had a white ring on her tail, within about an inch of
the tip, and, slight as this peculiarity was, there was not a
single black cat of Sandy's acquaintance who possessed it ;
and he felt that, unless the animal he should select did
possess it, a detection of the imposition would certainly take
place ; for he had no doubt that Nanny was familiar with
almost every hair on Tibby's body. Here, then, was a
serious difficulty ; and for some days, during which he had
not dared to venture near Nanny Gilmour, it was one which
he could by no means -get the better of. He could see no
black cat with a white ring about its tail, although with
eager and critical eye did Sandy scan every black cat that
came in his way, or within the scope of his vision* In truth,
he was constantly on the look-out, constantly on the aleit,
to discover such an animal as would perfectly suit his pur-
poses ; but in vain. At length chance did for Sandy what
all his vigilance could not accomplish. Returning one
evening, towards dark, from a certain piece of road-job-
bing, he saw a cat perched on the wall of a gentleman's
den. He stopped, and looked at the animal ; his parti-
cular interest at the moment inducing him to do this to
every cat he fell in with — and, lo ! it was black, the much
desiderated colour — black as jet. Sandy's eye glistened as he
looked on it. He approached nearer, gently and stealthily •
and, lo ! again, it had a white ring round the tail. It was
in all respects, in shape, size, and mark, the very picture of
the deceased Tibby. Glorious ! delightful ! Sandy's respira-
tion became difficult, and his heart beat fast with intense
eagerness to get possession of this singularly happy repre-
sentation of Nanny's murdered favourite. But how was
this to be done ? It was a ticklish affair ; for the cat was
evidently a shy one — remarkably so. She had winced even
at the distant and very cautious advances which Sandy had
already made ; and from the attitude she assumed, it was
>eyond doubt that she would bolt at the very next move-
ment he made. Sandy saw this, and fully appreciated the
xtreme criticalness of his position ; and, doing «o, he
remained for some minutes stock-still — his eye fixed with
ntense glare on his victim, as if he would charm her by its
>ower from her high place on the garden wall, or fasten her
:o the spot where she sat. But no such effect arising,
Sandy commenced in a low voice the soothing system, at

360

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the same time gradually extending his hand, and gently mov-
ing it up and down as if in the act of stroking her back.

"Puir thing, puir pussy !" he said, in his blandest tones —
" that's a bonny cratur ; that's a bonny beasty noo ; puir
pussy, puir pussy !" And, while practising this insidious
cajolery, Sandy was gradually lessening his distance, and
without producing any very palpable alarm on the part of
the object of his blandishments. Encouraged by this qui-
escence, but trembling with intense anxiety for the finale,
Sandy continued his approaches and his wheedling, till lie
arrived close under the wall on which the cat was seated.
But here another difficulty presented itself. The top of the
wall was, at least, three feet above Sandy's reach. This was
serious ; but, and it is literal speaking, not insurmountable.
There were facilities for climbing — projecting stones and cre-
vices ; and Sandy resolved to avail himself of them. Acting
on this resolution, he commenced his ascent, " puir-pussying"
and " bonny-beasting" all the time, with the most win-
ning gentleness. The cat remained still ; or, at worst,
exhibited only very slight symptoms of disapproval of
Sandy's proceedings. Sandy advanced. He was within a
foot of her — he was within six inches — he was within grasp
of her. He extended his hand with the gentlest motion
possible. He clutched — the cat started back. Sandy ad-
vanced again ; again extended his hand, and again essayed
a grasp. The cat evaded it by a short, but quick retreat,
backwards — not alongst the wall, but down the sloping
glass-roof of a green-house. Sandy raised himself further
up. His bust was now above the top of the wall, and he
was afraid he might be seen from within — from the house or
the garden — but it was now pretty dark, and he saw, more-
over, that there was no one in the garden at the time ; so he
did not consider his danger from discovery very imminent.
He, therefore, raised himself still higher, and finally gained
the top of the wall, on which he hung, on nice balance, by the
middle. The cat, in the meantime, was gradually receding
down the glass-roof of the green-house — a proceeding which
required a corresponding stretch inwards, on the part of her
pursuer. In making this stretch, Sandy went considerably
over the roof of the green-house ; but, knowing that it pre-
sented but very indifferent support, he was extremely cau-
tious.. He clung firmly by the wall. It was now, however,
neck or nothing. The cat was now fully a yard off. Ano-
ther inch or two, and she was irrecoverably out of his grasp.
Sandy saw the nice predicament, and he gave the cat up for
lost. Still, a bold and rapid movement might remedy all —
might still give his intended victim to his longing arms.
Sandy saw this, too, and determined to adventure it. Seiz-
ing the top of the wall with his left hand, and stretching
himself out as far as he could with safety, he gradually
extended his right arm, for the purpose of making a sudden
and rapid sweep at " pussy's" fore legs. His position was
taken — his attitude admirable — his distance calculated.
There was now only the bold and dexterous grasp to be
made. It was made; and — Sandy caught her? — No; —
and Sandy went right down through the glass roof of the
green-house, with a tremendous crash, carrying down with
him half an acre of glass, and, in his further descent, some
dozen flower-pots ; crushing to death, or fearfully mangling
and disfiguring, the plants they contained — some rare and
valuable exotics.

The noise attending Sandy's performances on this occa-
sion was, as will readily be believed, very great — so great,
indeed, was it, that it was distinctly heard at the house ;
and, being heard there, it created an alarm that instantly
brought the master and half-a-dozen servants, footmen, gar-
deners, butler, and errand-boy to the spot. The immense gap
in the roof of the greenhouse, occasioned by Sandy's descent
through it, immediately shewed those persons where the mis-
chief had happened ; and then opening the door of the said
green-house, and rushing into it in a body, which they did,

quickly shewed them who had done it. There they found
Sandy, lying like an overgrown Cupid among roses, bundled
up in the midst of a forest of precious dahlias — the said
dahlias, all of those immediately around him, at any rate,
being crushed, smashed, and deflowered, in a most shocking
manner. The scene of ruin and devastation, altogether,
which Sandy had occasioned, was, in short, really most
appalling to behold : and it did both appal and enrage those
who now beheld it. The master and his men, with simul-
taneous movement, flung themselves on Sandy, with the
utmost ferocity, and each seizing such part of his gar-
ments as they could conveniently catch, dragged him out
into the garden; when, having placed him on his legs,
Sandy, not being, on the whole, much the worse for his ad-
venture, and having regularly collared him, they conducted
him in procession to the house, under a firm conviction that
he had come " on evil purpose intent ;" and, under a de-
termination equally firm with the conviction, that he should
be brought to condign punishment for his meditated crime.
Sandy was escorted into town, and, as chance would have it,
was conducted before the identical magistrate into whose
presence he had been ushered on a former and somewhat
similar occasion. The magistrate was greatly surprised to
see Sandy again, and more so to find that he was now
brought before him on a charge of house-breaking ; (glass-
breaking would have been fully more correct ;) or, at least,
with evident intention of committing this heinous crime.

"Well, sir," said the magistrate, sternly, but addressing him
in words nearly the same as before, on the accusatory state-
ment against Sandy being made, " what do you say to this ?"

" Please your Honour, sir," said Sandy, replying in pre-
cisely the same words as he had used on the occasion al-
luded to, " it was just a black cat, sir — a black cat, that"-

" What ! a black cat again, sir !" interrupted the magis-
trate in great surprise, and with no small indignation in his
manner. " Come, come, sir — this won't do. The black cat
did very well on a former occasion, but it'll stand you in no
good stead on the present, I rather suspect. Fully too
much of black cats this, sir."

At this stage of the proceedings, Sandy most earnestly
requested a patient hearing, It was granted him, when he
entered on a detail of all the circumstances connected with his
night's adventure, including a partial explanation of his po-
sition with Nanny Gilmour, (yet keeping his thumb on the
will,) with a degree of candour and simplicity that not only
carried conviction of his innocence of any burglarious in-
tentions to all who heard him, but elicited from them fre-
quent bursts of loud and unrestrainable laughter.

Sandy's fair character, too, at least on the score of honesty,
stood him in good stead on this occasion, and, co-operating
with his own story, finally procured him a full and honour-
able acquittal ; the worthy magistrate having previously ad-
vised him to give up at once, and for good and all, the hunt-
ing of black cats, and to trust to some other means of serv-
ing his friend.

Of all this, Nanny had never heard a word ; but she was
still as determined as ever to outwit her friend. In a short
time, Sandy was informed she was dead, and went with high
hopes to hear the reading of the will. If not generous,
Nanny shewed herself to have been just ; for she " be-
queathed unto Alexander Murray, her especial friend, twenty
five shillings yearly, to enable him to supply Tibby with a
sufficient quantity of milk, during all the days and years of
her natural life."

WILSON'S

, Sttatfrittonarg, ann

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

PARENTAL DISCIPLINE.

THE plan of strict discipline, and the unsparing applica-
tion of the rod of correction, as recommended by Solomon
and many of the Grecian sages, long maintained its ascend-
ancy in the schools and in families, without even so much
as a single doubt being thrown, by querulous innovators, on
its superiority and excellence ; but, like all other ancient
rules and systems, it was, about the middle of the last
century, subjected to the heat of the crucible of modern
wisdom, and found to be spurious, or, at least, loaded with
alloy. From this imagined triumph, various opinions have
resulted. Some think that correction hardens and destroys
the feelings of youth, and sharpens the edge of the relish
for indulgences ; others, that rewards and punishments
should be alternated ; others, that the application of either
should be regulated by the nature of the children, who
vary in their dispositions as they do in their forms. We
do not choose to pronounce our opinion theoretically on
the soundness of any of these views. Aiming'at the high
object of portraying life as it is, theory is not our province;
but we miscalculate the sentiments of the public, if we do
not please them better, by laying before them a practical
example of the point before us, than by speculating on the
mutable truth of crucified theories. It may probably be, that
some of the older inhabitants of Newcastle may recollect
of an old double house that stood at the furthest end of
Gateshead, and attracted the attention of the passenger by
the row of Flemish windows that jutted out from the roof, by
its clear white-washed walls, and two green-painted outer
doors, that stood along-side of each other, as if placed in
such juxtaposition, for the convenience of the two occu-
pants, whose friendship would not admit of greater division.
The house was taken down many years ago, and, doubtless,
has little chance of being chronicled for future reminiscen-
ces, otherwise than by our endeavour to associate it with a
chapter of the science of morals, the materials for which
were furnished by the life and conduct of its inhabitants.

The eastern division of this double mansion was occupied
by Mr William Waterford, and the western by Mr John
Tyneham, two cousins, and both merchants ; who, having
realized competent fortunes, had retired to spend the re-
mainder of their lives in the enjoyment of peace, and the
interchange of those offices of friendship which the dry
details of business had for a time interrupted. The former
of the two was a widower, and had one son, named Henry ;
•<he latter was still blessed with the partner of his life, and
-.ad also an only son, whose name was Richard. The
friendship of the parents, which had lasted many years,
perhaps received (by a curious law of our nature) some
accession of force and steadfastness, from what might, at
first view, be deemed destructive of the feelings of that
affection — viz., a temperately sustained difference of opinion
on many general subjects, the arguments produced by
which infused life and vigour into their conversation, and
prevented the sickening influence of the dull insipidity of
continual assentation — the greatest bane of friendship.

There was, in particular, one point on which their differ-
ent sentiments were reduced to a practical application to
150. VOL..HL

life; and that was, the best method of rearing and educat-
ing their sons. Their views on this subject, derived from
different sources, were ioto ccelo different. Mr Waterford
was a strong advocate for holding the reins of authority
over children, so loose, that their perception of the curb
might not check the growth of those faculties and senti-
ments which, though sometimes tending to evil, have so
much good mixed with them that there is more, in
the end, gained by their free developement, than could
ever result from their stinted condition. The introduction
into the young mind of cold prudential maxims, under
the name of virtue, produced, he said, cunning, the parent
of all weak vices ; while, to give free license to the spirit
of liberty and daring, produced a consciousness of strength,
and a love of generous sentiments, which would, in the end,
work out its own condition of honesty and virtue. To
keep a youth bound up from all gratifications, was only to
feed his appetite for evil, to clothe vice with the gaudy
robes which imagination weaves for all prohibited things,
and to give power to the spring which would, in the time
of manhood, start with a force proportioned to the pressure,
and dislocate and destroy the virtuous constitution of the
mind. He argued not for a free license to evil, or an
encouragement to the sowing of youth's wild, oats, with a
view to a good harvest of the civilized grain ; but, so long as
there appeared no morbid appetite for vice, he would be
slow to prevent, by stern authority, or to punish with seve-
rity, those errors and faults which, being incident to youth,
might, by the distaste they are calculated to produce, pre-
vent or check the progress towards crime.

On the other hand, Mr Tyneham agreed with Solomon —
'c Withhold not correction from the child." " Thou shalt
beat him with a rod, and deliver his soul from hell." He
was a great disciplinarian — a great advocate for a severe
moral code for the mind, and a stout rod for the back of
youth. The more firmly, he said, a young person was
bound up and prevented from falling into youthful errors,
and the more severely he was punished for the commission
of faults, however venial, the more inexcusable his conduct
would appear to himself, and the greater the terror of a
repetition of that for which he was punished. In this waj
only could the sometimes indistinct lines of demarcation
between virtue and vice be indelibly traced in the youthful
mind, and in this way alone could the necessary and pro-
per foundations of conscience be laid in the heart. He did
not deny that the love of pleasurable indulgences might for
a time be increased, by being checked by the relentless
curb of authority, which would allow of no improper grati-
fication ; but he contended that, if the restraint could be
continued until it was supplied by the sanctions of reason
and mature prudence, the habit of self-denial — the great
conservator of morality and virtue — would take its seat of
authority, and regulate the actions of the man with as much
precision and success, as those of the boy had been moulded
by the rod of correction.

Such were the different theoretical views entertained by
the two neighbours, on the rearing of children ; and many
an argument they had upon their comparative soundness
and applicability to the practice of life. But, as generally
happens in matters of theory, neither could produce any

362

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

effect upon the other ; and, as they had each a physical sub-
ject in. the form of a son, to work upon, and could thereby
test by experience the soundness of their respective doc-
trines, it was natural that they should have recourse to a
vindication of their opinions, and a furtherance of their
paternal interests, by training their sons according to their
respective views of what would be for his benefit. Henry
Waterford and Richard Tynehara were accordingly placed
under those respective systems of training : the former
(though he had good lessons of virtue read to him) being
allowed the greatest latitude in his sports, diversions, and
outbreakings of his exuberant spirits; the latter again having
his line of conduct and bearing mapped out to him with
critical precision, while the figure of the birch was delineated
at every turn, to shew what he had to expect if he departed
one inch from the statutory direction. The father of the
one, well pleased to know that his son had learned his
task, did not refuse a smile to a recital (set forth with the
glee of youthful ardour) of some daring exploit, performed
by him and his companions, and for having a hand in
which, his colleague next door Avas, at the very moment,
Buffering punishment, and sending forth his cries to inter-
rupt the mirth of the narrator.

The first effects of these systems were soon apparent in
the manners and dispositions of the two youths. Both, being
clever, made fair progress in their studies, and it was not in
this respect that any great difference could be discovered.
The manumitted Waterford was open, free, and easy in his
manners — equally ready with his reply to a grandfather as to
one of his own age and standing. lie shewed no great
anxiety for amusement, because it was not denied him, and
seemed to enter upon his youthful frolics and excesses as
matters of course — taking them naturally and easily, as oc-
casions presented themselves — without hurry or precipita-
tion in their commencement, and without fear in their
termination. If a mistake was committed, or an injury
inflicted, provided the error were not of a very serious
nature, he took to his father's house for protection, which
he was sure to find, if fortitude and spirit expiated the
offence ; and, fortified by confession and absolution, he
was ready and willing for the same project on any future
occasion which might present itself, and for which he could
wait, seeing he was not forbidden to take advantage of it at
any time. His companion, young Tyneham, on the other
h;md, was bashful and retired in the presence of grown up
individuals, and, while under the eye, or near the residence,
of his parents, cautious, timid, and prudent ; but, having
few opportunities for relaxation or amusement, he was al-
ways keen, eager, and even impatient, to get his compa-
nions to join him in some sport, or (what he was not averse
to) some devilry, which suited the humour or fancy of a
mind rioting in the freedom of a temporary manumission.
Once engaged in a sortie against the peaceful lieges, or in
a melee of school foes, he generally went too far, from the
reaction of the too much pressed spring, and committed
greater faults and excesses than his young friend, to whom
the scene and enjoyment were more matters of course and
permission. More personal evidences of irregularities, and
a greater number of complaints, generally attended the con-
viction of poor Tyneham, than reached the eyes or the ears
of his companion's indulgent parent ; and a cursory observer,
judging from these evidences, and the frequency of the ap-
plication of the instrument of punishment, would have
pronounced the carefully watched and corrected Tyneham
a much more vicious youth than the indulged Waterford.

These effects of the two opposite systems of training
seemed to justify the views of Mr Waterford, who did not
fail to claim his advantage, as well for the sake of victory
as with the friendly view of prevailing upon Mr Tyneham
to relax a discipline which was ruining his son.

' You fvre ingenuous enough," he said to his friend, u to

admit, that Richard has committed many more faults of late-
than Henry, and must now see the bad effects of your rigid
system of discipline. By denying him the gratification of
an excursion on the water, you compelled him to take, by
stealth, Mr Bently's boat, which, by being improperly
moored, was washed away by the sea and lost ; by keeping
his pocket always empty, and denying him ordinary indul-
gences of the appetite, you forced him over Mr Warden's
garden wall in the presence of my son, who said he would
not be at the trouble of climbing for what he could get
so easily at home ; by your castigations, you have generated
in him fear, which has produced secrecy, which lias given
birth to cunning, which makes him cheat his companions,
till they are roused to hate and punish him; by the same-
operation, you have stimulated his passions of anger and
spite, the true sources of the battles in which he is en-
gaged. I speak thus strongly because I am your friend.
Relax your discipline, and you will cure the evil you have
produced."

" I do not admit that all these effects have flowed from
my discipline," answered Mr Tyneham, " though I am sorry
to say that my son has required the rod, and still requires
it much oftener, and seems to acknowledge its efficacy
much less than I could have anticipated. His dogged, secret
look, which is as new to our family as it is repulsive to my
nature, and some instances of concealed revenge, have pained
me exceedingly, but nothing has passed unpunished ; I have
done my duty as a parent ; I do not yet give up my point ;
I have hopes in reserve, and time will try."

" A frosted bud never produced a fair blossom or good
fruit," replied Mr Waterford, with some air of triumph.
" The effecfof time upon it is only to rot it and fill it with
worms."

'' And out of these sometimes come beautiful winged
creatures," said the other, smiling.

" Which fly away, and never return/' said his friend.
" Richard will not bear your correction much longer. He
will take wing."

" A clipped one will not carry him far," replied Mr
Tyneham. "But, seriously, I yet hope well of my son.
Notwithstanding of the present adverse appearances, I have
great faith in the adage — ' as the twig is bent, the tree's in-
clined.' Time and a cord will deprive the sapling of its
bounding reaction ; and, as the juices dry up, the stiffening
and correcting powers of maturity will make a straight, and,
I hope, a beautiful tree."

Time, which was here appealed to, is never slow in its
test. The same characteristics continued to be exhibited
by the two youths even after they had left school and been
(as they soon afterwards were) apprenticed to merchants in
Newcastle. They still remained great companions — young
Waterford pleased his friend by his openness, frankness,
and generosity, and, above all, by the readiness he exhibited
to enter into any whims or caprices, however questionable
or improper, which restraint had produced in the other,
and which he called liberty ; while Tyneham was necessary
to his friend by his continued desire to snatch every op-
portunity of devising ingenious modes of libertinism for
the gratification of both, and especially the former, who,
however well he liked pleasure, could not be at the trouble
to invent the mode of varying its aspect and giving a dash
of piquancy to its cloying sweetness. By the common in-
tercourse of their fathers with a Mr Swainson, who lived
in the town, and had a charming daughter named Diana,
the two companions became visiters at that gentleman's
house and (we might almost say, of course) suitors of the
lady, who was accounted the fairest, as she was, in fact, the
most amiable young female in Newcastle or Gateshead.
They had both about the same time been struck with a

0" passion for the young lady'; but in this instance they
maintained their secret — each pretending to the other that

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

3C3

he merely admired Diana Swainson, and defied the vulgar
restraining bonds of mawkish love. It would have been
difficult to say which of the two was the more ardent in his
secret breathings of incontrollable affection, or the more
boisterous in his open, and, of course, feigned defiance of
its power.

In consequence of MR Swainson's extreme intimacy with
the fathers of the two young men who were in the con-
tinual habit of frequenting his house, he was privy to the
somewhat extraordinary trials which the two parents had
made of their adverse plans of bringing up their sons.
They had both displayed so much power of persuasion iu
their arguments, that he was often hung up fairly in the
balance of doubt. In these arguments the delicacy of the
parents, in presence of a third party, limited them to the
a priori question ; for any reference to the actual behaviour
or the real dispositions of the youths would have produced
personalities which, however much the friends themselves
might have excused, if kept within the bounds of friendship,
could never have been tolerated in the presence of another.
Having been early interested in the question, Mr. Swainson
had kept his eye upon the young men ; and now that he
was pretty well assured that they were both admirers, if
not lovers of his daughter, whose natural goodness rendered
all factitious modes of training useless, he was more deeply
interested in the issue of the trial than he ever could have
been as a theoretical speculator on the principles of human
nature.

So far as Mr Swainson's experience yet went, he was in-
clined to believe that young Waterford was the more honest
and generous youth. He admired his unflinching eye, his
frankness, his easy manners, and his total want of anything
like secrecy, even in regard to those personal improprieties
which, having been discovered, might have been supposed to
call for concealment. His admission of faults and errors
took the pleasing appearance of ingenuousness, one of the
most amiable traits in the features of the character of fallen
man ; and Mr Swainson was not slow to admire what is
deemed too rare, and what was exhibited (with the difference
in the degree of veniality of the thing admitted) in such
perfection in his amiable and virtuous daughter. Qualities
almost the very reverse were observed by him in young
Tyneham: an unsteady, furtive eye; closeness; secrecy; un-
easiness ; extreme sensitiveness, when bantered about his
peccadillos ; and a forwardness in exculpation which outran
the probation of truth. These were the results of his per-
sonal observation ; for as to what he heard, he -was bound to
confess that neither of the young men seemed to have much
to boast of on the point of prudence, if, indeed, they were
not both liable to the charge of being gay, dissolute, wild,
and improvident.

Making every allowance for their youth and inexperience,
Mr Swainson was inclined to give his two young friends a
much fairer trial. Nothing could give him more satisfac-
tion than the circumstance of finding one of them worthy
of his daughter, who, he could perceive, gave indications of
a partiality for him who, in the meantime, was also his
favourite — young Waterford. In pursuance of his purpose
of probation, he invited them to dinner, along with a young
man, his nephew, of the name of William Somers. They
had previously often dined in his house, along with their
parents, on which occasions he could easily observe the work-
ing of the two modes of training : the manumitted youth
exhibiting the same case and confidence, confessing with
the same fearlessness his free conduct, and vindicating his
right to an equal portion of liquor, with the same boldness
he could have exhibited had his parents been absent ; while
his friend measured his conduct and his words, appeared to
feel the weight of the incubus of authority, spoke little and
drank none. Now that they were to be beyond the autho-
rity of their parents, their conduct would be better devel-

oped and easier marked ; and Mr Swainson continued his
observation. AH his former experiences were confirmed.
The presence of Diana, with the pure, dignified, bland look
of virtue, and that unconscious power of female beauty
which is incapable of analysis or explanation, but felt as
irresistible, threw the spell of admiration and restraint on the
spirited youths, and kept them, while she remained, slaves
to etiquette, and worshippers of the forms of devotion to
beauty. When she departed, the charm was broken. Water-
ford discoursed of his parties, the amount of liquor con-
sumed at them, and the consequences of their joviality of

his billiard-room failures and successes, of a street row, in
which he had an active hand the evening before, and of
many other exploits of spirit, washing down every finished
period with a glass of wine, and appealing to Tyneham for
a confirmation of what he said. These appeals were not
relished by the latter, who seemed pained when the subjects
were broached by his friend, and gave him many nods, hints,
and touches of the foot, to get him to remain silent. He
observed great caution in his drinking, and persisted so long
in his prudent policy of not coming out in presence of his
host, that the latter resolved upon leaving the nephew to do
the honours of the table, from whom he would not fail to
get a true report of all the proceedings of the evening.

Mr Swainson was no sooner gone, than young Tyneham
took the lead. He was the point of the attraction and re-
pulsion of the wine bottles ; and encouraged his friends to
larger potations. He became joyous and bacchanalian.

" I love your uncle, Somers," he cried, " as a high-pressure
engine loves the removal of the valve of liberty. I do
abominate all manner of restraint. When Ovid, the poet
of love, said that all that was wanted for the license and
liberty of the spirit of the votary of luxury, were night, and
wine, and love, he forgot the absence of a father or an old
host. The days are gone when, as Homer says, wine made
even old men dance against their will ; but they will come
again, when I am old, and no longer fear parental authority.
Would that old Swainson had been my father ! — for, next to
dancing under wine himself, is the disappearing of an old
host from the company of youth. His good sense this
night is worthy of all admiration."

" He would observe something new in you if he were to
return," said Waterford. " He does not know you so well
as I do. We had better call him in to see you in your
new dress."

" I care not now," cried the heated youth. " Why
should I ? The artificer tries gold and silver, as old
Theognis says, by the test of fire ; but a man of sense
testeth the mind of his neighbour by the touchstone of
wine— vinum animi speculum — wine is the looking-glass
of the mind."

" Your mirror will reflect some strange things to-morrow
morning, then," said Waterford ; " for 1 see you are in a
fair way for a scour, dans les rues, or what our better
language calls a rig and a row."

" Thou sayest well, Waterford," said the other ; f< yet
with wine I require no monitor to whisper in my ear, en-
joyment. What is the order of the night ? If we are for
the billiard-room, we must try and find what the ancients
could not — a measure for our wine. My hand is steady
yet — see" — (holding up a glass) — '' and my eye knows its
mark, and is even bolder and truer than when our host Avas
present. To him one glass, another to Die, and let us up
and out while we have spirit enough to illuminate the
night, steadiness to gain our billiard points, and pluck to
act the roue."

They sallied out, and went into a billiard-room, where
they played with blacklegs, and were cheated. They then
went to drown the recollection of their loss in more wine, got
intoxicated, came forth, and, quarreling with every person
they met, were soon in the heart of a street riot, laying about

364

TALES OF THE BOKDERS.

them with the recklessness of inebriety, and suffering the
thick blows of an angry mob. By an unconscious movement,
they approached the house of their host, with the mob still
following them, and forcing them at intervals to turn and
submit again to the degradation of a fight with the dregs of
society. Opposite to the house, there was a full stop : the
fury of the people, roused to the utmost height by the con-
temptuous manner of the gentlemen, Avas expressed by loud
cries of vengeance ; and several acquaintances having inter-
fered in behalf of the companions, a general melee com-
menced, and was proceeding with determination, when Mr
Swainson, roused by the noise, opened his window, and
witnessed the degrading scene. At this moment, he saw
obscurely two individuals approach his door: they were the
two fathers of the youths, who, alarmed at the absence of
their sons, had come from Gatcshead to call. at Mr Swain-
son's for the purpose of taking them home. The battle was
raging with great fury, and he now observed that the two
fathers at that moment ascertained, by inquiry, that their
sons, whom they had come to seek, were the chief instiga-
tors of the disturbers, and likely to be the greatest suf-
ferers.

The scene now became doubly interesting and insuffer-
ably painful to him who charged himself with the fault of
leaving the young men to the free use of his wine. He
strained his eyes to observe the proceedings, and would
have gone down to assist the parents, but he was undressed.
The fathers instantly rushed forward among the fighting
crowd, and exerted, in their progress forward, an authority
which was not recognised by the furious populace. The
light of a neighbouring lamp shewed the faces of the young
men streaming with blood, and the uplifted hands of the
parents entreating and forcing alternately the people to get
forward. They succeeded. Mr Waterford seized his son,
who knew him. Mr Tyneham was in the act of laying hold
of his son, who did not know him, whe'n, dreadful sight !
the infuriated young man aimed a blow at the head of his
parent, and laid him at his feet. The relationship was
known to some of the bystanders ; and such was the effect
produced on the minds of a wild and raging populace, when
a cry was raised that he had struck his father, that the riot
was quelled in an instant, and every threatening arm hung
by the side of its breathless and awe-struck possessor. All
this scene was witnessed by Mr Svvainson from the window.
When he saw Mr Tyneham fall by the hand of his son, he
uttered a piercing cry, and rushed down, naked as he was,
to the street. The wounded father, who was, however,
more stunned by the blow than really hurt, was carried into
the house, and soon recovered. The young men proceeded
homewards; Mr Tyneham followed sometime after; the
people dispersed ; and all was again silence and darkness.

Next morning, Mr Swainson awoke to a painful recol-
lection of the proceedings of the previous night, which he
thought in a great measure attributable to himself. At
breakfast, he lamented the melancholy occurrence to Diana,
whose tender affection for her parent suggested the com-
forting reflection, that his having left the young men when
they were yet sober, relieved him from the responsibility he
attached to himself."

" The trial now," he said, " is surely complete. Mr Tyne-
ham and Mr Waterford agreed, when their sons were quite
young, to make them the subjects of a practical proof of the
efficacy of two different modes of training and education.
The former enforced a rigid discipline, following Solomon —
Correct thy son, and he shall give thee rest ;' and the
latter wrought by kindness and indulgence. So far, neither
has been successful ; but one has signally and fatally failed.
By William Somers' account, it was Richard Tyneham who
encouraged them to drink, led them to a billiard-room,
from that to a tavern, then precipitated them, by a blow
inflicted on a passenger, into a street riot, and wound up the

whole by doing that which is said to deserve the cuisc of
God — lifting his hand against the parent whom he was
bound to honour, reverence, and obey — ' Accursed of
heaven shall he be who striketh his father or his mother.'
Both of these young men have paid addresses to you, my
child, and I was hopeful that the son of one of my oldest
and most respected friends might have proved worthy of the
love and, hand of my Diana. Neither of them is worthy of
so virtuous and fair a creature. Do I read an assent in
that blue eye ? A secret tear is not the usual sign of my
Die's accordance with the sentiments of her parent."

"Did you not say, my dear father," replied the timid
girl, as she cast down her eyes, that were suffused by the
tears noticed by the parent — "did you not say that it was
Richard Tyneham who urged his companions to drink, and
encouraged and led them on 1 "

"I did, my love," replied the father, who knew the
meaning of her look, and the tendency of her artless ques-
tion; "but Henry Waterford was led on, and joined heart
and hand in the adventure. He, besides, seems to boast of
his dissipation— an act which, when limited to peccadillos,
I construed at one time into ingenuousness ; his friend has,
at least, the merit of being ashamed of his vice. I do not
mean to say that Waterford is not the better of the two ;
but the best of the good is not good enough for you, my
child ; the better of two bad, is a choice for the bad."

" But may not Henry repent and reform, father?" con-
tinued the fond and artless Diana.

" They may both reform, my love," answered the father.

" But I mean Henry Waterford in particular," said she.
" You know he did not strike his father."

" That is small praise, Diana," said the other, smiling at
the equivocal success of the fond apologist, and rising to
prepare for a visit to his two friends ; " but I am myself to
experiment this morning, and I can speak with more certainty
of a recovery after I have seen my patients."

Mr Swainson proceeded to the dwellings of his friends.
Mr Waterford was standing at the door, and welcomed him
kindly, but with a look of sadness.

" I take blame to myself," said Mr Swainson, " for that
unfortunate affair of last night ; and cannot rest till I know
how Mr Tyneham is. I am also anxious to know, from the
lips of your son, how the affray commenced/'

" Mr Tyneham, I am glad to say, was not hurt," replied
the other. " Henry is not yet out of bed. You may go up
and give him a lecture for his bad behaviour."

'' Is it not too late now to begin the preventive system
of discipline ?" replied Mr Swainson. " Is it possible
that at last you have become a convert to Mr Tyneham'a
doctrine ?"

" My son has not yet struck me" said the other, signi-
ficantly.

Mr Swainson shook his head and proceeded up stairs.
He found the youth in bed, reading a book of amusement.

" Ha ! this is reversing the forms of etiquette, Mr Swain,
son," said he. " The guest should call for the Amphytrion,
and tell him how his wine smacked and operated ; yet
it was not your wine that produced the row. By the jolly
rosy god ! it was a good one — more scientific punishing I have
not seen for many a day. I made the workies spin like
bobbins ; a washing in the Tyne could not have made the
colliers whiter or cleaner than I did by my pummeling. See !
my hands are black yet, with the coal-dust of the rascals.
But I have not done with him. By the box-master of old
good Castor ! I have vowed vengeance against the whole
caste of the unwashed."

Mr Swainson looked at he youth in amazement ; but his
object was merely to study, not to reprove.

" I do not approve of these sentiments, Henry," said Mr
Swainson.

" Neither do I altogether," replied the youth ; <•' but, if you

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

had been abused as I was, your blood might have got a littl
warm. The only thing I am really vexed for, however,
the loss of the money. Would you believe it, sir, that tl
very blacklegs that cheated us joined the black faces \vl
abused us, and thrashed their very victims ? By heavens !
is not easy to bear."

" Is this the only thing you are sorry for, Mr Waterford ?
said Mr Swainson, looking him full in the face.

" Why ! there's nobody hurt," said the youth— " I mea
seriously hurt. Mr Tyneham should not have come befor
Dick when he was blind with drink and passion ; but th
old boy is nothing the worse for the blind blow. How
Die? I thought 1 saw her peeping like a frightened mou
out of one of the loop-holes of your house : the fighting ha
sobered me by that time, and I'm glad of it, for 1 would no
have liked to have done to my father what Dick did to his.
" I do not think that Diana could approve of these pro
ceedings," said the other, significantly.

" Ho ! a woman never thinks the less of a man for a bi
of spirit," said the youth. "Recollect, my dear sir, we wer
forced to fight — our lives depended upon our courage an
self-defence. I think I am casuist enough to satisfy Di
that our fault was a very venial one."

" Indeed !" said Mr Swainson — " then I presume you maj
be again in the same situation."

" Not unlikely," said the other. " I have no wish for
abstractly. It was Dick that led the way — I only followed
I should certainly not be disinclined to have my revenge
the blacklegs must not be allowed to escape with both bootj
and a whole skin. I intend to call down upon Die to-day
She must forgive me."

" I believe my daughter is to be out the greater part o
the day," said Mr Swainson. "I must go and see ho\\
Mr Tyneham is."

" He was nothing but a little stunned, I assure you," sak
the young man. " It was quite natural."

" The blow or the stunning ?" said Mr Swainson.
"Both, both," said the youth. "It was natural fo
Dick to make at all and sundry around him, and he die
not know his father, and it was quite natural, you know, for
a person to be stunned by a blow, if it was severe enough.'
" A very natural solution, Henry," said Mr Swainson
taking up his hat. " Your humble servant — I proceed to
Mr Tyneham's."

^ He accordingly went into that gentleman's house. The
sight presented was grievous and melancholy. The father
sat by the parlour fire with his brow upon his hand, and the
mother sat opposite to him with her eyes fixed upon her
sorrowing husband. The latter looked up as his friend en-
tered, and again replaced his head in the same position. Mr
Swainson felt the sacredness of his sorrow.

'• This is a melancholy business," said he. "We cannot
QOW speak of the efficacy of early discipline."

" I trusted to Solomon," said Mr Tyneham, still holding
'lis head on his hand, " and find he was only a man.
There is One greater than he, and his ways are like the
passage of a bird in the air. It darts past us. The place
from which it came, its destination, its power of flight, its
motive and object, are unknown."

" We know at least that His ways are good," said the
mother. " The cloud produces the rainbow with its many
colours, and the worm gives birth to the butterfly whose
wing is tinged with the hues of that radiant arch. This
affair may produce amendment in our son."

" I renounce him, I renounce him !" said the father, trying
to keep down his struggling heart.

" Where is Richard, madam ?" said Mr Swainson.
" He is still in bed," answered the mother, " and refuses
to come down."

" I wish to see him," said the other. ' Shall I proceed
to his bedroom ?"

365

" I wish you would," replied she. « I have seen strong
symptoms ot amendment in him to-day. He will speak
more freely to you than to me, who am forced to reprove
and condemn with tears which seem to melt him and choke
ins efforts at the expression of conciliating penitence."

Swainson proceeded to the young man's chamber.
He was, as stated in bed. His face was turned to the wall.
A book bound like a Bible lay beside him, and sobs burst
tram him, which, as Mr Swainson proceeded forwards, he
endeavoured to repress. He turned his head slightly round,
and, having observed who his visiter was, relapsed into his
tormer position.

"A ^t°U nee,d n0t turn avray y°ur head from me, Richard,"
said the good man. "I do not come to reprove you, but
simply to ascertain what are your sentiments of the pro-
ceedings of last night. I wish, for your sake and your
rather s, that you would speak to me freely. You will find
me a good comforter, but a bad disciplinarian."

The young man made no replv, but buried his face ir.
his hands and sobbed aloud.

" Am I to take these symptoms for signs of sorrow and
penitence ?" said Mr Swainson.

" They are inadequate expressions," said he, " of what I
am at this moment suffering. I have never been happy —
I am now miserable. Since ever I recollect, there has been
a war within me between the two powers of duty and
inclination ; and I have been seriously examining the state
of my heart, and, upon reflection, I am surprised that, judg-
ing from the burning pain which has followed all my trans-
gressions against the authority of my father and mother, I
should ever have sinned more than once: the grief and
agony which followed my first departure from my father's
precepts, seems at this moment to overbalance all the stolen
pleasures I have since enjoyed. Every transgression has
doubled the pain of remorse ; as every new link was added
to the chain, the long, heavy, clanking appendage increased
its power of galling my wrung withers, till the last addition
has sent the iron into the red flesh, and made me cry like Job
in agony to my God. You may have noticed that my
looks were timid, furtive, and painfu), and may have con-
strued these indications against me. Yet they were for
me. In place of being the indications of the secret dis-
sembler who conceals the last act of vice, from mere fear of
discovery, while he is planning another, they were the
symptoms of a disapproving conscience, which, fortified for
years by a father's precepts and discipline, avenged itself by
producing the pains of fear, disquietude, and remorse.
These things were felt only — they were not studied or
analyzed by self-examination. But the hour has come;
its shadow is on my heart. Great God! Was ever a
sleeping sinner roused from his lethargy by such means ?
Was it necessary for my salvation that I should lift my
rebellious hand against my father ?"

These last words were uttered in a choking voice, while
he again hid his face in his hands.

" It seems that it was by that great Power deemed neces-
ary," said Mr Swainson. " But you are so far excusable:
you did not know that it was your parent."

" No, no — thank ye, thank ye !" cried the youth, turn-
ng round and seizing Mr Swainson's hand ; " I was not
:onscious of my dreadful act. It is known, then, and ac-
cnowledged that I knew him not : is it so ? You have
aken from my bosom a load of misery. Tell, oh, tell my
ather ! will you, my worthy, kind friend, satisfy my father
f that redeeming truth ?"

" I will," replied the other ; " but I hope enough re-
mains for the food of repentance and amendment."

" Abundance, abundance," cried the youth. " This is not
a sudden change. It is the completion of a long prepara-
ion, which has been, unknown to myself, working in my
icart. Every departure invested my father's precepts with

3CG

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

an addition of authority. I have struggled against them
long ; but now, vanquished and overcome by the accumu-
lated powers, I have fallen ; and, God is my judge, I never
more shall transgress against my father or Him."

" Then, Richard," said Mr Swainson, tf I shall make up
your peace with your parents. It must be left to yourself
to make up your peace with Heaven."

•' This shall assist me," he said, seizing the book that
lay beside him.

Mr Swainson paused, and there was silence for a few
minutes.

" And there is another," said the youth, " in whose eyes
I could wish to find forgiveness and favour."
" Who is that?" inquired the other.
" Diana Swainson," said Richard, while the tear started
to his eye. " But" (faltering) " this is not a time for the
expression of my sentiments. I may, however, wish and
beseech forgiveness. Mistake me not/' (he continued, after
a pause,) " that tear is still one of remorse."

" And so it should be," replied Mr Swainson. " We
must not interfere with thee, sacred Power ! Let some years
of probation pass over our heads, and I may become your
advocate with my daughter."

" Blessed hour of wretchedness !" exclaimed the youth.
" Hasten, my worthy friend, to my father. Tell what you
have heard, and what you have seen — assured that my words
mid -niy tears come equally from my heart. All I ask is
time. Let him grant me one trial on this new condition ;
and, if I fail, let him cast me off for ever."

Mr Swainson promised compliance, and proceeded again
to the father, who still sat in the same desponding attitude —
resisting, apparently, the attempts of his wife to get him to
view the misfortune as not so irremediable as he seemed to
think it.

" You said, my dear friend," said Mr Swainson, as he
entered, " that the ways of God are dark and mysterious ;
but the expression you used seemed to imply, that we are
ignorant of his designs as well as the ways of working
them. Yet this is not so. We know that His designs are
good, and I have now been a witness of the truth of the
observation. Your son is changed. He says that all his
life has been an unhappy struggle against your precepts ;
that he resigns the contest, overcome and vanquished by
the force of the remorse produced by the unconscious, yet
salutary act of last night ; and promises that, if he be allowed
one trial, he will prove the sincerity of his repentance."

" Is it possible," said the father, lifting up his head, " that
he acknowledges, at this late hour, the force of my early
precepts ? That accords with my hopes and intentions, and
rouses me from my despondency, which has been produced
as much by having my whole life made a false theoretical
dream, a lie, as by the proceeding itself, which I believe
was unconscious."

" I told you as much myself, my dear husband," said
Mrs Tyneham.

" No, my love," replied he ; " you only said he was
penitent. Every sinner is at times penitent. The other
world is paved with the good intentions of sinners. That
affected me not ; but when I am given to understand that
he corroborates my philosophical anticipations, proves my
theoretical positions, and vindicates the wisdom of Solomon,
I am roused and filled with hope. He shall have his own
time, my good friend."

The mother hastened up stairs, to convey the intelligence
to her son ; and Mr Swainson returned home, meditating
all the way on the extraordinary scenes he had witnessed.
He had often heard it stated that the maxim of Solomon
was questionable — that children by chastisement were
hardened, and by restraint made more keen for vicious
indulgences ; and, up to this hour, the instance before him
seemed to carry with it some confirmation of the doubt.

But moral maxims, which ha\e ieceivea the stamp of the
approbation of ages, often conceal truths of great import-
ance under doubtful appearances. The philosophy of thig
famous apophthegm was now apparent. The wild horse
chafes the bit, and, as he chafes, snuffs the desert air, and
defies his rider ; but the broken courser chafes only to feel
the vanity of the effort, and to resign his power into the
hands of his master. When he reached home, he found
Diana dressing to go out. He saw at once the propriety
of making his faithful daughter acquainted with his senti-
ments of her lovers. He, therefore, related to her accu-
rately everything he had seen and heard ; and, as be pro-
ceeded, noticed, with pain, the heaving bosom which strug-
gled to retain the sentiments of an early, a first affection,
even in opposition to a kind father's undoubted opinion of
the turpitude of its object.

" You will thus see," he continued, "how my estimate of the
characters and dispositions of our friends has changed, since
our last interview. Richard Tyneham has a conscience con-
formed by early precept, and roused by a sense of duty.
Henry Waterford has none. There is no spring in him of
virtuous movement ; and the natural moral gravitation of
vice must sink him. I wish you to promise, my dear Die,
that you will not have any intercourse, beyond that of for-
mal recognition, with any of these youths, until a fair time
of probation has tested their morality and prudence."

A burst of tears and restrained emotion, startled the fond
parent, and proved to him, too truly, that his daughter's
affection for Waterford was stronger than he had ima-
gined.

" You know, my dear child," said the father, taking her
to his bosom, " that I was myself partial to young Water-
ford ; but would my lovely patroness of goodness and comely
sentiment wish her father to place his white lily among
thorns — to choke the green and tender stems of virtue he
has taken so long to nourish and protect, by the rank shoots
of the deadly night shade ? Your danger, your emotion,
your inestimable value, call forth the eloquence of a plain
man, and make an anxious and doting fither trust his
sense to the hyperbolical language of excited nature. You
must conquer this misplaced love, Diana."

"Father!" said the weeping girl, as she lifted her heal
from his bosom, and looked endearingly in his face. " you
taught my infant lips to whisper the first principles of learn-
ing, and instill into my heart the rudiments of that virtue
I adore above earthly things. Can you, father — father — •
can you teach not to love ?"

" It is a hard question, my Diana," replied he, '-'and can
best be answered by another. Will you put yourself into
my hands ?"

" Yes, yes !" ejaculated the dutiful daughter ; " I will —
heart and all"

'•'Excellent creature !" cried he, with emotion. " The tears
of a bereaved husband's tenderness are a fitting medium
through which to contemplate the duty of a daughter. You
were never so like my departed Edith as now." "

Moved by the recollections suggested by this scene, Mr
Swainson led his still weeping daughter to a couch : and,
having requested her to compose herself, sought hurriedly, in
the recesses of his chamber, the portrait of his wife — the
cure and solace of all his worldly affliction, r.s well as the
sedative temperer of his few remaining joys.

By the request and advice of her father, Diana kept her-
self aloof from both her young friends. Some time after
the period of these circumstances, Mr Swainson was waited
upon by Mr Waterford and Mr Tyneham.

" We have a request to submit to you," said the latter.
"We know that you feel an interest in the success of our sons.
It was by your mediation that I became reconciled to
Richard, and his friend Henry was ever with you a favourite.
Mr Wfiferford. has suggested to me, that it is now time that

TALES OF THE

367

both the young men should begin business on their own
account. Their indentures are expired, and we may anti-
cipate that the cares and duties of responsible merchants
may exclude and occupy the places of those vices and follies
we have had so much reason to deplore. As a preliminary
to this, they must have a cash credit to a fair extent ; and it
has occurred to me, that it might form a motive for prudence;
and caution, if some other person than the father should be
security for the son. With this view, it is proposed that I
and another — say yourself, as an old friend — should be secu-
rity for Henry Waterford, and that Mr Waterford and you
should do the same friendly office for my son — each of us,
as principals, guaranteeing you against any loss, by a back
letter of the same date with the bond."

This proposition was reasonable, and nothing more than
the proposers had a right, from old friendship, to demand ;
t was, besides, safe, as the two fathers could not fail to pro-
•ect Mr Swainson, as cautioner, against all risk. It, how-
ever, in some degree, took Mr Swainson by surprise ; and, as
he had, three weeks before, become security for £5000, for
his brother, George Swainson, a coal-contractor in the neigh-
bourhood, he required time to think of it. The request was
fair, and the friends departed. Mr Swainson pondered
over the subject ; and, swayed by the certainty of safety,
and the peculiar relation that subsisted between his daugh-
ter and the ,young men, consented. Next day, he called
upon his friends, and told them his resolution. The pur-
pose was carried into effect, and the two bonds, for a very
considerable amount, were prepared some time after, and
signed.

The two young men commenced immediately as general
merchants, on their separate account. The influence of their
fathers soon got them established ; and to all appearances
they would succeed. However much they became occupied
with the details of business, neither of them for a moment
forgot the amiable object of his passion, whose studied dis-
tance only served to increase the flame; but they took very
different means of producing an impression which might
lead the way to their happiness. They were less together
now than formerly, and knew little of each other's proceed-
ings— a circumstance as favourable to the reformed Tyne-
ham's affection, as it was to his morals and mercantile
prosperity. Waterford was too little conscious of having
done anything improper in the estimation of Diana, to
attribute her change of manner to the spirited display of
fighting he made opposite to her father's house — an exhibi-
tion which ought, he thought, to have raised him in her
opinion. Her distance was mere coyness, which never
resists importunate love. He was, therefore, always on the
watch to see her, or to speak to her; called at the house ;
waylaid her in her walks ; wrote love epistles, as rapturous
as the elegies of Propertius ; and thus and otherwise mis-
spent his time, neglected his business, and sacrificed his best
interests.

Tyneharn, on the other hand, knew well, and lamented
deeply, the cause of Diana's changed manner towards him ;
but he recollected, with comfort, that her father had pro-
mised that, if he amended and shewed himself Avorthy of
nis confidence and her love, (at least that was the old man's
meaning,) he would procure the parent as an advocate in
nis favour. His good sense and delicacy, therefore, sug-
gested a strict restraint upon his motions, and the expression
of his feelings : he never visited the house but when he
knew the father was within, shewed a distant respect for
his daughter, avoided the places of her amusements and the
paths of her solitary walks, saluted her formally when chance
threw her in his way, and devoted all his time and atten-
tion to the duties of his increasing business. Often when
thus sedulously occupied, he detected a deep involuntary
Bigh struggling from his breast ; but he knew his duty, and
persevered for victory. These different proceedings were

noticed by Diana and her father — the latter of whomadmired
the conduct of his favourite, and augured from it the happiest
results, while the former, condemning secretly the importun-
ity of her assiduous and bold lover as equally destitute of
delicacy and prudence, had learned more of the art of
ceasing to love from the lover himself, than she did from her
constituted teacher into whose hands she had committed the
training of her heart.

While thus noticing the progress of his neophytes, Mr
Swainson was struck with sudden dismay, by the intel-
ligence of the failure of his brother, who, having been dis-
appointed in finding coal in some pits he had sunk to a great
depth and at a great expense, was obliged to sto'p, and
declare himself insolvent. A great part of the old man's
fortune was thus swept away — he was called upon to pay
up the £f)000 contained in his bond — and felt, as he obeyed
the stem command of the creditor, that he was parting with
the independence and the happiness of her for whom alone
he had any wish to remain longer upon earth. He was so
much affected by this loss, that he was for a long time
confined to bed, where he derived, from the amiable and
devoted creature he thought he had ruined, the consolation
which sustained his sinking heart, and probably saved his
life. After he recovered, he saw that he was now no longer
in a situation for running a similar risk, and resolved, in
justice to Diana and himself, to call up the bonds he had
signed with his two friends in behalf of their sons. He,
accordingly, sat down and wrote a letter, detailing his loss,
and stating that he was compelled to request his name to
be cancelled from the securities. He had adopted the very
mode of precipitating that misfortune he wished to avoid.
Mr Waterford could not procure another name in place of
that of the withdrawing cautioner ; the bank called up the
money ; the principal debtor, young Waterford, had be-
come embarrassed, and could not pay ; his father had in-
volved himself secretly in behalf of his son, to an extent
which would ruin him and could not relieve Mr Swainson
in terms of his back-letter — so that the whole sum in the
bond required to be paid by Mr Tyneham and Mr Swainson
equally. The news of the failure of Waterford having
transpired, it was discovered that the young man had ab-
sconded, leaving an immense mass of debt contracted chiefly
by high and dissolute living, and other fruits of a dissi-
pation and libertinism of which he never had conscience
enough to discover or feel the impropriety or the sbame.
Among the debts left by the fugitive, there was not found
even the amount of a single pound due to his old com-
panion, Richard Tyneham, whose success in business was
as signal as was the imprudence and recklessness of his
friend.

This second disaster bowed down the head of good Mr
Swainson even to the earth. To pay his share of Waterford's
bond would require not only the remaining money he was
possessed of, but a part of the price of his house, which he
would require to sell. Worn by age, whose powers of
depression and weakness were outdone by the crushing and
breaking energies of misfortune, and the deadening influ-
ence of the prospect of poverty and want in his old age,
besides destitution to an unprotected daughter in an evil
world, he almost sank under the united pressure of his
sorrows. Again confined to bed, he felt the utter helpless-
ness of his condition ; while the tears of his daughter — the
tribute of sympathy alone — (for selfishness had no province
in her devoted heart) — suggesting self-crimination and re-
gret, failed of their wonted effect of solace and comfort.

' Do not grieve for me, father," said the distressed girl,
on the day previous to that appointed for the payment of
the remainder of his means. " I have a fortune in those
accomplishments which I received from your affection and
providence ; and I would also say, grieve not for yourself,
for these same means shall be employed — by efforts conti-

370

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

<f Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife ;
1 but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."

While this and some other conversation passed between
the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy
whispering at the other end of the house ; but they at length
approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment
which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the
female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only
other bed ; but both the man and the woman objected to
this proposition — saying, that they preferred to sit by the
hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that
their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did,
and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about
two hours afterwards) and, to her astonishment, found that
neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose
and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in
a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She
looked for the body of its brother ; but it was gone. She
felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told
him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out,
found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away,
and with them everything that had been brought, even to
the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great
anxiety they approached the bed : the lady still appeared in
a deep sleep ; her breathing was heavy and laborious ;
every attempt to awaken her was in vain ; her eyes were
opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of
utterance.

" Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, " that woman
hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture
she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the
house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had
offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna
taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O
Simon .' what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she
said, ' From, you I will take anything ; you, I know, will
not do me harm' — and she drank it from my hands.
Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in
that cup I"

Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a
passion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror,
gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady
in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel
in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm
and collected.

"Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to staybythepoor
young creature while I go and catch Mally, and ride a.s fast
as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister,
who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do
something for the sufferer ; at least, he will advise us what
is best for us to do in this hour of need."

" I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen — " very eerie ;
but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith
mother and bairn until ye return."

In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the
manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to
his cottage ; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed
her last sigh.

Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands.
She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's
death ; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and
assured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she
became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer
had informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had
happened under his own eye :— That the young lady had
been very ill ; that the female appeared expert at her duty,
and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she
could; that the young creature wished her much to be near
her, as if she had something to communicate ; but the attend-
ant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper
for her to speak, and found always some excuse tc send her

from the bedside ; that the lady appeared to be in great
awe of her ; and that the first boy, the one that was alive
Helen kept at the hearth until the other came ; that she heard
it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the assistant
said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her
upon the bed ; that, after a time, she took a vial from her
pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to
drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away
from her ; and that the poor murdered creature was per-
suaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.

The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of
all the circumstances as narrated, bade the sorrowing couple
adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to assist
Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed
to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in
hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer,
and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was
further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder ; and, on
inquiry at the hostelrie, if any such travellers had been
there the day before, found that they had passed through
the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particu-
lar attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the
house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the
meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed lay-
ing out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the
orphan boy- Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring
of massive workmanship was suspended from her neck, and
]ay resting upon her bosom.

"A true-love-gift," ejaculated Helen, "an exchange o'
plighted faiths. Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in
sore distress and death, it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has
your love been requited ; but rest in peace — your sorrows
are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he
can speak, I will tell him where 1 found it. I fear it will
be a' I will ever be able to inform him of either father or
mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, un-
til she could shew it to her husband ; renewed her offices to
the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it,
resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a
relation in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would
be a parent to it — for death had been a spoiler in her own
family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfor-
tune to bury.

The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed
him the ring, and told where it had been found. He ex-
amined it closely ; but there were neither armorial bearings
nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to
whom it had belonged — yet the make and chasing were
peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined
it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe,
baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse ; and
the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The
boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To hia
education the minister paid particular attention, and was
proud of his pupil — for William Wallace, as he was called,
did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was
quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pur-
suits— for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with
rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace
was the hero of his youthful imagination — and he longed
to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier.
Thus years rolled on : AVilliam was now eighteen years of
age ; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was
irksome to him ; yet he restrained his inclinations, and
toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail
that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his
twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months
of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth.
When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor,
the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going
into the busy world. The stock was turned into cash, and

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

371

William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth,
set off for the capital, accompanied hy the prayers of the
good man for his success. Since the death of his protec-
tors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague
hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery
of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All
the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been
vain. His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a
just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony — the
idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent,
often flashed across his mind and made him love his igno-
rance ; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred
again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh,
now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck ; and then,
when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steefl.
He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards
the scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his
life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first
time, he felt alone in the world ; and a few involuntary tears
fell from his eyes — a token of regret due to the memory of
departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes en-
deared to him by many tender associations. Thus in pen-
sive meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future
mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had ap-
peared to his imagination of easy execution ; but now he
began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of
before ; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached be-
fore nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the
city overpowered him ; the stateliness of the buildings ap-
peared to him the Avork of giants ; and he almost shrank
from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In
his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the
buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and
crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on
which it stands. Along the line of houses to the East,
that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting
sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows
glanced like burnished gold; while the diadem-shaped
spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed
to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impa-
tience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all
the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But
scarce had he entered the West-Port Gate when his feel-
ings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery
and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice.
He put up for the night at one of the many inns of the
Grassmarket ; and, revolving in his mind what he had al-
ready seen, retired to bed.

Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied, forth
to gratify his curiosity; but. with no one to whom he
could communicate the feelings that every new object
awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds.
On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the
Meadows, he observed, among the crowd of well-dressed
pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman,
who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity
was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The
old gentleman bowed.

" I beg pardon," said he — "may I be so bold as to request
your name ? — for I feel as if you and I had not now met for
the first time. Yet it cannot be ; for it is now above twenty
years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than
that time old."

" My name is William Wallace," answered William, with
a beating heart. ' I never had the honour to see you until
to-day."

" Wallace ? Wallace ?" said the old gentleman, musing.
" No — my friend's name was not Wallace ; we Avere both of
Monro's regiment — his name was Seaton ; but the likeness
was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing

YOU."

William's heart sank — he remained silent for a few
minutes — his face was alternately flushed and pale — a new
train of ideas crowded upon his mind — he Avished to speak,
but he could not find utterance — wiped his forehead Avith his
handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confu-
sion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon
him, much surprised at his emotion ; and, with an energy
bordering on violence, seized his hand.

" Young man," said he, " that ring AAras once the pro-
perty of my friend : IIOAV came you by it ? He valued it
above all things, nor Avould he have parted Avith it but with
life. At this moment, I almost think the last long tAventy
years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in
Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me,
and explain how this came into your possession."

'• AVith pleasure," replied William. " It is a sad account
I have to give, and I am most impatient to learn some-
thing of its possessor. Alas ! I fear I must feel too great an
interest in him."

" The early friend I allude to," replied the old man,
" Avas an honour to his country. A braver or more gene-
rous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you Avill
acknoAvledge Avhen I have told you all. Alas ! poor Seaton !
shall I ever see you again ?"

Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel
Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High
Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct ac-
count of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest
outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the
greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his
mother's death by an exclamation of horror

" Henry Seaton," he cried, " had no hand in this, I
could pledge my head for him. I am strongly impressed,
young man, with the idea, that my friend has been cruelly
injured, and his generous heart wounded past recovery by
this deed of darkness. Savage monsters ! \vorse than de-
mons ! Avould to God I had you in my poAA'er !" And he
walked about the room in a state of violent excitement.
" William," said he again, *' I have no doubt you are the
son of Henry Seaton, my more than brother ; and, so far
as is in my power, I shall assist you in the discovery of your
parents, and avenge the murder of your mother. I shall
now gi\Te you my story : — I Avas an ensign in Monro's regi-
ment of Scots, serving in Flanders, Avhen your father (for
I have no doubt that he Avas such) joined us, early in the
spring of the year 1706, a short time before the battle of
Ramilies. We Avere both of the same company, and of
congenial minds ; so that we soon became bosom friends,
and were ever as much as possible in each other's society.
In battle Ave fought side by side, without being jealous of
each other's fame. In our first battle, that of Ramilies, the
Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the
misfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When
I fell, your father saved me from the sword of the enemy,
and bore me out of the line at the hazard of his OAvn life ;
for Ave Avere, at the time, pressed by a strong division of the
French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, Avhen our
friendship, if possible, Avas stronger than ever. At the
battle of Oudenard, Avhere we drove the French from their
trenches, your father led on his men, over the Avorks, Avith
too much eagerness, and AAras not supported for a time, as
the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable,
killing and wounding a great many of the advancing column.
Bravely did he and his handful of Scots stand their ground,
surrounded and overAvhelmed by numbers ; but they Avere
dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they Avero
so pressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could
not fire, for fear of killing their OAVU men. I saw the
perilous situation of my friend ; with the greatest efforts, I
and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their
rescue. At our arrival, there were not more than six of

370

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

" Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife ;
1 but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."

While this and some other conversation passed between
the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy
whispering at the other end of the house ; but they at length
approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment
which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the
female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only
other bed ; but both the man and the woman objected to
this proposition — saying, that they preferred to sit by the
hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that
their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did,
and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about
two hours afterwards) and, to her astonishment, found that
neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose
and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in
a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She
looked for the body of its brother ; but it was gone. She
felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told
him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out,
found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away,
and with them everything that had been brought, even to
the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great
anxiety they approached the bed : the lady still appeared in
a deep sleep ; her breathing was heavy and laborious ;
every attempt to awaken her was in vain ; her eyes were
opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of
utterance.

" Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, " that woman
hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture
sne requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the
house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had
offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna
taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O
Simon I what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she
said, ' From you I will take anything ; you, I know, will
not do me harm' — and she drank it from my hands.
Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in
that cup I"

Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a
passion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror,
gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady
in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel
in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm
and collected.

"Helen," said he, "yon Avill not be afraid to stay by the poor
young creature while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast
as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister,
who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do
something for the sufferer ; at least, he will advise us what
is best for us to do in this hour of need."

" I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen — " very eerie ;
but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith
mother and bairn until ye return."

In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the
manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to
his cottage ; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed
her last sigh.

Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands.
She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's
death ; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and
assured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she
became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer
had informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had
happened under his own eye : — That the young lady had
been very ill ; that the female appeared expert at her duty,
and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she
could ; that the young creature wished her much to be near
her, as if she had something to communicate ; but the attend-
ant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper
for her to speak, and found always some excuse to send her

from the bedside ; that the lady appeared to be in great
awe of her ; and that the first boy, the one that was alive
Helen kept at the hearth until the other came ; that she heard
it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the assistant
said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her
upon the bed ; that, after a time, she took a vial from her
pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to
drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away
from her ; and that the poor murdered creature was per-
suaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.

The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of
all the circumstances as narrated, bade the sorrowing couple
adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to assist
Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed
to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in
hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer,
and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was
further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder ; and, on
inquiry at the hostelrie, if any such travellers had been
there the day before, found that they had passed through
the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particu-
lar attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the
house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the
meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed lay-
ing out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the
orphan boy. Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring
of massive workmanship was suspended from her neck, and
lay resting upon her bosom.

" A true-love- gift," ejaculated Helen, " an exchange o'
plighted faiths. Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in
sore distress and death, it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has
your love been requited ; but rest in peace — your sorrows
are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he
can speak, I will tell him where 1 found it. I fear it will
be a' I will ever be able to inform him of cither father or
mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, un-
til she could shew it to her husband; renewed her offices to
the dead ; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it,
resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a
relation in the world, tnat, so long as she had life, she would
be a parent to it — for death had been a spoiler in her own
family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfor-
tune to bury.

The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed
him the ring, and told where it had been found. He ex-
amined it closely ; but there were neither armorial bearings
nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to
whom it had belonged — yet the make and chasing were
peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined
it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe,
baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse ; and
the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The
boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To hig
education the minister paid particular attention, and was
proud of his pupil — for William Wallace, as he was called,
did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was
quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pur-
suits— for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with
rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace
was the hero of his youthful imagination — and he longed
to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier.
Thus years rolled on : William was now eighteen years of
age ; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was
irksome to him ; yet he restrained his inclinations, and
toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail
that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his
twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months
of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth.
When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor,
the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going
into the busy world. The stock was turned into cash, and

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

371

William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth,
set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of the
good man for his success. Since the death of his protec-
tors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague
hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery
of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All
the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been
vain. His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a
just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony — the
idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent,
often flashed across his mind and made him love his igno-
rance ; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred
again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh,
now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck ; and then,
when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steefl.
He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards
the scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his
life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first
time, he felt alone in the world ; and a few involuntary tears
fell from his eyes— a token of regret due to the memory of
departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes en-
deared to him by many tender associations. Thus in pen-
five meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future
mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had ap-
peared to his imagination of easy execution ; but now he
began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of
before ; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached be-
fore nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the
city overpowered him ; the stateliness of the buildings ap-
peared to him the work of giants ; and he almost shrank
from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In
his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the
buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and
crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on
which it stands. Along the line of houses to the East,
that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting
sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows
glanced like burnished gold ; while the diadem-shaped
spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed
to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impa-
tience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all
the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But
scarce had he entered the West-Port Gate when his feel-
ings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery
and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice.
Pie put up for the night at one of the many inns of the
Grassmarket ; and, revolving in his mind what he had al-
ready seen, retired to bed.

Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth
to gratify his curiosity; but. with no one to whom he
could communicate the feelings that every new object
awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds.
On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the
Meadows, he observed, among the crowd of well-dressed
pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman,
who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity
was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The
old gentleman bowed.

" I beg pardon," said he — "may I be so bold as to request
your name ? — for I feel as if you and I had not now met for
the first time. Yet it cannot be ; for it is now above twenty
years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than
that time old."

" My name is William Wallace," answered William, with
a beating heart. ' I never had the honour to see you until
to-day."

" Wallace ? Wallace ?" said the old gentleman, musing.
" No — my friend's name was not Wallace ; we were both of
Monro's regiment — his name was Seaton ; but the likeness
was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing
YOU."

William's heart sank— he remained silent for a few
minutes— his face was alternately flushed and pale— a new
train of ideas crowded upon his mind— he wished to speak,
but he could not find utterance— wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confu-
sion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon
him, much surprised at his emotion ; and, with an energy
bordering on violence, seized his hand.

•' Young man," said he, « that ring was once the pro-
perty of my friend : how came you by it ? He valued it
above all things, nor would he have parted with it but with
life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty
years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in
Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me,
and explain how this came into your possession."

" With pleasure," replied William. « It is a sad account
L have to give, and I am most impatient to learn some-
thing of its possessor. Alas ! I fear I must feel too great an
interest in him."

" The early friend I allude to," replied the old man,
" was an honour to his country. A braver or more gene-
rous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you will
acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas ! poor Seaton !
shall I ever see you again ?"

Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel
Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High
Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct ac-
count of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest
OVltUne of himself. His hearer listened to him with the
greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his
mother s death by an exclamation of horror

«j T7 Seato?>" he cried, « had no hand in this, I
could pledge my head for him. I am strongly impressed,
young man with the idea; that my friend has been cruelly
injured, and his generous bean Bounded past recovery by
this deed of darkness. Savage mo^t^ I worse than de-
mons I would to God I had you in n\y ^Ower !" And he
walked about the room in a state of vio^^t excitement.
" William," said he again, <' I have no doubt you are the'
son of Henry Seaton, my more than brother ; and, so far
as is in my power, I shall assist you in the discovery of yo\«
parents, and avenge the murder of your mother. I shall
now give you my story : — I was an ensign in Monro's regi-
ment of Scots, serving in Flanders, when your father (for
I have no doubt that he was such) joined us, early in the
spring of the year 1706, a short time before the battle of
Ramilies. We were both of the same company, and of
congenial minds ; so that we soon became bosom friends,
and were ever as much as possible in each other's society.
In battle we fought side by side, without being jealous of
each other's fame. In our first battle, that of Ramilies, the
Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the
misfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When
I fell, your father saved me from the sword of the enemy,
and bore me out of the line at the hazard of his own life ;
for we were, at the time, pressed by a strong division of the
French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, when our
friendship, if possible, was stronger than ever. At the
battle of Oudenard, where we drove the French from their
trenches, your father led on his men, over the works, with
too much eagerness, and was not supported for a time, as
the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable,
killing and wounding a great many of the advancing column.
Bravely did he and his handful of Scots stand their ground,
surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers ; but they Avere
dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they were
so pressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could
not fire, for fear of killing their own men. I saw the
perilous situation of my friend ; with the greatest efforts, I
and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their
At our arrival, there were not more than six of

rescux

372

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

them upon their feet — all were covered with wounds and
spent with fatigue. Your father still raged like a lion in
the toils — all swords were aimed at him — he seemed invul-
nerable. I had reached his side, when a severe wound laid
him insensible at my feet; hut I stood over him, and,
backed by my brave followers, we fought till the French
gave way before the numbers of our troops that had forced
the works and poured in on every side. I raised him up —
the blood streamed from his side — he appeared to be dead
— his eyes were closed — I placed my hand upon his breast
— all appeared still — then mournfully I supported his ' head
on my knee, and saw his eyelids move, and then a faint
heaving of the breast. I snatched the canteen of a dead
soldier that lay by my side ; there was some wine in it ; I
applied it to his lips — he opened his eyes."

" ' Edward/ said he, ' I thank you. I fear my career of
glory is run. I hope we have beat the enemy. I die con-
tent. Farewell !' And he sank again into insensibility,

" All this had passed in the course of a couple of minutes.
The enemy had made a fresh stand, and were forcing our
troops back upon the intrenchments. J gently laid him
down, and, rallying the men who were retreating, again
forced them back. The enemy began to give way in all
directions, and we followed up our advantage until the
order for ceasing the pursuit was given. For a time I
had forgot everything, in the impetuosity of battle ; but,
after rallying my company, and marching back to our camp,
I took a file of men, and proceeded to the spot where I
had left my friend. I looked for some time in vain. So
active had been the work of the pillagers that followed the
camp, that the dead and the dying had been stripped ; and
by the countenance alone could one discover a friend from
a foe. I examined every face amidst a heap of dead bodies,
and discovered my friend. Life was Hot yet extinct. I had
him removed to my tent, and went for a surgeon, who exa-
mined and dressed his wound, but gave me no hopes of his
recovery. He was carefully removed into Oudenard,
where our hospitals were established, and for some days his
life was despaired of; but youth and a good constitution
prevailed, and he again bade fair for life and happiness.
As soon as he was enabled to converse, I was at my usual
place by his bedside, when, after thanking me for his pre-
servation, he expressed the deepest sorrow for the loss of
his ring, which had been torn from his finger by the pillagers.

" I had, until now, scarcely paid any attention to this
bauble ; but remembered, when he spoke of it, of having
seen at all times a ring upon his finger. I expressed my
concern at his loss, but said, that it ought not to give
him so much concern, at a time when a miraculously spared
life called for his gratitude to God.

" ' I value it next to life itself,' was his reply, ' for it was
the gift of my mother, and had been in our family for ages.
Publish among the sutlers, my good friend, that fifty dol-
lars will be given for the ring, upon its delivery to me ; and
twenty dollars to any one who will give information that
will lead to its recovery.'

"I promised, and left him, consoled with the hopes of again
getting the jewel ; yet I could not help thinking my friend
too profuse in his offer. I immediately published in the
camp, a reward of ten dollars for the ring, or five for any
information to lead to its recovery, and next morning the
ring was delivered, and the ten dollars paid to one of the
fiends in human shape, that, like vultures, follow in the
track of war. My fingers itched to cut the ruffian down ;
but I restrained myself. I paid him the promised reward
with a hearty curse — the word of a soldier is sacred ; and
it was at this time that I examined the bauble so minutely,
that I never can forget it. I never saw joy more vividly
expressed than when he plac od it upon his emaciated finger,
and said I had given him a medicine that would quicklv
recover him.

" ' Shade of my sainted mother,' he ejaculated, ' I have
still thy latest gift, and it shall be parted with only with
my latest breath.' And he kissed it fervently as he
spoke.

" In the course of a few weeks, he was convalescent, and
again joined the regiment. Each officer had received one
step of promotion, and our duties went on in the usual
routine, though we were principally occupied in foraging
parties. It was the depth of winter, and provisions were
scarce. Henry had the command of a strong foraging party ;
and, on one occasion, he came in his route to a large farm-
house, where he hoped to obtain supplies. Approaching the
house, he heard cries of distress and supplication in female
voices. He put his men into rapid motion, and rushed for-
ward alone. Passing a thick fence, he saw a party of Dutch
soldiers, who had anticipated him, and some of whom were
at the door, guarding it ; but the greater part were within
the house. The cries became more piteous and piercing.
He drew his SAvord and rushed past the sentinels at the door,
who attempted to prevent him ; but the view of his men
coming up unnerved them. A scene of horror met his
eyes : the male inmates of the house were bound, and
soldiers were standing over them, ready to plunge theii
bayonets into their bosoms at the least movement, while
others were proceeding to acts of violence towards the
females. With a voice of thunder, he commanded them to
desist, and, seizing the officer, hurled him from the terrified
and fainting daughter of the farmer. The Dutchman, in
rage, drew and made a furious lounge at him, which he
parried ; and his men entering at the same time, they drove
the others out of the house. My friend, in French, requested
the Dutchman to follow his men ; but he refused, and
challenged him to single combat, for the insult he said
he had received at his hands — adding some opprobrious
epithets, which roused the choler of the brave Englishman.
In an instant, they were engaged hand to hand ; but short
was the strife — the Dutchman fell dead on the scene of his
violence, and his men returned to the camp, and made a
complaint against Monro's regiment, which was like to have
led to some serious consequences ; but, after your father stat-
ing the circumstances to the colonel, the latter waited upon
the Duke of Marlborough, and we heard no more of the
affair.

" The last action we were in together, we both escaped
unhurt ; yet it wa& the bloodiest one we had ever been in.
Of all the honours of Malplaquet, the Monroes had their full
share ; for. although the Duke did not like the Scots, and
used at times to throw a sarcasm at their country, he always
gave them a situation of danger, either from dislike or a
reliance on their courage. About twelve months after
Malplaquet, your father left the service and retired into
France. Peace was now evidently at hand, and an armis-
tice had been agreed upon and signed by several of the allies
of the English ; and our gallant leader was now in disgrace.
Much as Henry Seaton and I esteemed each other in all
other points, we had no fellowship in politics. I was
and am a Whig ; he, a Tory of the first water — a devoted ad-
herent of the exiled family; yet, high asparties ran at this, time
in cities, we had no differences in the camp, where each re-
spected his neighbour's opinion, nor overvalued his own. The
last letter I received from him was about twelve months after
we parted. It was dated St Germain's. He said, and in
a mysterious sort of way, half-earnest, half-jest, that, in a
short time, we might meet, to try the force of our different
opinions. I, at the time, only laughed at it, and returned,
for answer, that I had no doubt we would both do our best,
and leave the issue to the Disposer of events. Soon after,
Mar's ill-concerted rebellion took place, in which I have no
doubt your father was an active agent ; but I have, since
this last letter, lost all trace of him. Your being born in
the year '16 would lead me to suppose that he must have

TALES OF THE BOIIDERS.

married your mother about the time of the Rebellion, either
in Scotland or France."

That Henry Seaton was his father, William earnestly
prayed ; but how was he to ascertain this fact ? He knew
not; neither could his kind host assist him. The lapse of time
was so great, that, in all probability, he was dead ; and, with
a mind worse at ease than it had ever been, he took leave
of the Colonel, promising to call again in the forenoon of
the following day, to consult what steps he should take to
follow out the information he had so unexpectedly acquired.
He reached the inn, and retired to rest ; but sleep had fled
his pillow. A thousand ideas crowded his mind ; method
after method was canvassed, each for a time offering assured
success, but, upon more mature consideration, being rejected.
Day dawned, and found him as unresolved as when he left
Colonel Gordon. As soon as it was consistent with pro-
priety, he waited upon the Colonel, by whom he was greeted
heartily.

" Well, tell me," said he, " the fruit of your invention
for tracing out your father, and I will tell you what has
occurred to me as the best mode of procedure ?"

William, without hesitation, told the state of his mind,
and his utter inability to think of any feasible plan, from his
ignorance of the world and its ways.

" Poor fellow ! I do not wonder at what you tell me,"
replied the Colonel. " Before many years go over your head,
you and the world will be better acquainted. My own opi-
nion is, that you must forthwith proceed to France, where
you will find many of the adherents of the Stuarts. The
young Charles Edward is easy of access to Scotchmen, for
he is anxious to make adherents ; and I have no doubt that
he, or others of his followers, will be able to give you every
information about Henry Seaton. But you must beware
how you acquit yourself, lest they cajole you into their
party ; for, if your father be alive and acknowledge you,
the trial will be greater than you are aware, to resist
him."

" I will at once follow your wise counsel," replied Wil-
liam. " I trust — nay, my heart tells me I shall "be suc-
cessful. Of my ever being an adherent of the Stuart
family, I have no fears. Before that can happen, I must
first forget all I have ever learned, from my first dawn of
reason, up to this present moment. The first tears of sor-
row I ever shed were for the woes of others, drawn forth by
the tale of the sufferings of my foster parent's father, who
suffered for the cause of truth, near the very spot where I
now lodge. The worthy minister to whom I am indebted
for all the learning I possess, had also some share in my
politics. Nay, do not smile, when I say he had political
opinions. He spiritualized everything. Nebuchadnezzar
was a type of the Stuart family. The Babylonish king,
driven out from men, was only an emblem of their-expulsion,
during the time of the Commonwealth, and his being
restored was only the fortune of Charles II. ; but, as he
continued in idolatry after his restoration, so did Charles,
after his subscribing the Covenant at Scone ; and, as Nebu-
chadnezzar's family were destroyed, so are the Stuarts cut
off from the throne for ever. To the whole of this, I do not
subscribe ; but my aversion to the family of the Stuarts, I
can never overcome."

" My young friend," replied the Colonel, " I am not one
to quarrel with any one for his opinion ; but I rejoice to
find we are of one mind. I will accompany you to Leith,
and we will make inquiries if there is any vessel there likely
soon to sail for France."

They accordingly proceeded to Leith. where they found
there was a brig to sail in the course of a week or two for
Bourdeaux, to bring home a cargo of wine. There were also
several vessels to sail in a few days, for different ports in
Holland ; but the Colonel advised William to agree with
ihe captain of the vessel for Bourdeaux — which he did ; and,

having never seen the sea but at a distance, nor a vessel in
his life, his friend, to oblige him, lingered on the shore, and
examined them with him. In this manner, the time passed-
They dined in Leith, and again walked about the shore,
enjoying the delightful scene. The shades of evening were
beginning to approach, when they resumed their way back
to the city. They had reached about half-way to the
Abbey-HillTwhen two men rushed from behind the fence,
and, presenting pistols to their breasts, demanded their
money or their lives.

" Ho, my good fellows, not so fast !" exclaimed the Co-
lonel, and drew his sword. William did the same. One of
the villains fired, and wounded the Colonel in the right
shoulder. William, at the same moment, plunged his sword
into his side, and he fell. The other ruffian fled, pursued
by William ; but he escaped. He then hastened to his
friend, who stood leaning against the wall, with the wounded
robber beside him. William inquired if he was much in-
jured.

" No, Seaton," he said. " I believe it is only a flesh
wound, for I can wield my sword yet." And he raised it up,
and pointing it at the breast of the fallen wretch, who lay
groaning at his feet — u We must secure him," said the Co-
lonel ; " and, at the same time, be on our guard against his
cowardly associate. If he could walk, I would know how
to act with him ; but I am not going to carry the base car-
rion. Indeed, my arm bleeds, and is getting stiff; other-
wise I would dispatch him where he lies, and save the
hangman his labour."

" For the love of God, do not dispatch me !" cried the
man. " I will try to walk ; I would not be cut off so sud-
denly. In mercy, spare me, even for a few hours. I am
unfit to die ; yet I feel life ebbing fast."

He rose to his feet, but was sinking again, when Wil-
liam's pity overcoming his anger, he supported him. The
wretch looked in his face, uttered a scream of horror, and
sank senseless in his arms. He looked to the Colonel in
astonishment. The latter looked narrowly into the face of
the robber, passed his hand across his forehead, and mused,
as if recalling something to his memory, but spake not.

Two men now came up to them, and assisted them to
carry the body to the nearest house, where a surgeon was
sent for, and intimation given to the authorities, who were
all in a state of the greatest alacrity — stimulated, doubtless,
by the Porteous mob, Avhich had taken place only a few
months before. Until the surgeon arrived, William, by the
directions of the Colonel, bound up his shoulder. What the
Colonel called a scratch, appeared to him a serious wound ;
for the ball had passed through the muscle of his arm.
They proceeded to stanch the blood which flowed from the
side of their prisoner, when the surgeon arrived ; who,
after having examined it, at o»ce declared it mortal, and
that the man had not many hours to live. After some time,
he succeeded in restoring sensibility to the sufferer. Pie
opened his eyes — fixed them on William, who was assisting
the surgeon in his efforts — a fearful change came over him —
he groaned, and, clasping his hands, shrieked, and closed
them again. A sudden recollection had come over the Co-
lonel.

" I cannot be mistaken," said he : " I have seen him be-
fore ; but when or where I cannot say, unless he was one
of my company in Monro's regiment."

At the mention of Monro's regiment, the wretched man
shuddered — his eye fell upon the ring upon William's hand,
as he held up the candle by the bedside — the sweat stood
in large drops upon his forehead — he would have started up,
but was restrained.

" Nay, then, since I am discovered," he cried, " I will
confess all to you, my injured and betrayed master. I see
the Colonel recollects me ; but I am surprised you do not
remember vour old servant, Alick Brown."

374

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"Who was your master?" exclaimed William, in sur-
prise.

" Captain Henry Seaton — yourself," said the man. " I
cannot be mistaken. That ring — your height and counte-
nance. You are, I am happy to see, much improved since
I last saw you — time appears to have made no change."

" Know yofl aught of Henry Seaton ?" demanded the
Colonel; while "William stood mute in astonishment and
surprise.

" If this is not my old master whom I see," said the man,
" who can he be ? My mind is filled with guilt and
remorse. Die I must, either of this wound, or by the
law — for me there is no hope here or hereafter." And he
groaned and ground his teeth in despair, while the surgeon
bade him prepare for death, as he had but a few hours to
live. The officers entered, and claimed him as their pri-
soner. The villain once more arose in his mind. " Ha !" he
exclaimed, " I have bilked you yet. I have a sufficient bail
in my side to rescue me out of your hands." The effort to
speak now became more difficult ; his voice sank into whis-
pers ; he appeared to be dying. Remorse again roused him ;
and, turning his head, he inquired who William was ?
The Colonel told him. He became more dreadfully agi-
tated, and groaned in anguish, till the officers of justice
looked upon him in horror.

" I can doubt no longer," he cried. " It is too true.
There is a God that governs all ! Mercy, mercy ! How
shall I appear before Him, covered with the blood of his
creatures ? Let me perform the only act now in my power —
to atone for the past. Young man, you are the son of my
noble and injured master. After he left the army in
Flanders, I accompanied him to France, where he lived on
terms of great intimacy with the royal exiles and their follow-
ers for several months ; at the end of which time, he and
two other gentlemen, accompanied by me, set out for Scot-
land on a secret mission to the disaffected, preparatory to the
preconcerted rising. We remained concealed for several
months, in the houses of those whom we knew to be ad-
herents to the cause we were embarked in. At the house
of Lord Somerville we remained for a long time, where my
master won the affections of his daughter, and proposed
for her ; but his Lordship objected to their union at that
time, on account of the unsettled state of affairs. With
the consent of Helen, they were, however, privately married;
and soon after we set out for Aboyne, and joined in the
unfortunate affair. He was slightly wounded at Sheriff-
muir, but escaped by my assistance, and got safe to our
camp. The Prince and the Earl of Mar embarked when
all hopes of success were cut off, and I was sent back to the
house of his wife's father, to bring her to her husband,
who had remained concealed in the Highlands, during the
severity of the winter. It was arranged, through me, that,
as soon as he had received remittances from France, I was
to conduct her to the coast of Argyle, by Glasgow and the
Clyde. It was far on in the summer before he could get
nil the arrangements made. His wife, who expected in a
few weeks to be confined, and concealed her situation with
difficulty, became most urgent. Early in the month of
September, she escaped unseen from her father's house, and
joined me at the appointed place, accompanied by a fiend
in woman's shape, the agent whom I had employed to carry
on our intercourse. She had been a follower of the camp,
and, by the little service for which I paid her well, had
•won the confidence of the simple Helen. We rode as fast
as the lady's circumstances would admit, only halting twice
for a short time, in secret places. It was then that the devil
first assailed me in the person of this woman. She told
me what a quantity of money and jewels the lady had in
her valise, and how easy it would be to get all into our
possession. I shuddered at the very idea, and threatened
to shoot her upon the spot. She laughed and said it was

all a jest ; but it took hold of my mind during the course oi
our journey, and she judged by my looks, I suppose, that
I was now more fit for her purpose. We conversed about
it ; the idea became familiar ; but I shuddered at blood.
She said there would be none shed. Still I could not
consent — neither was I sufficiently averse. The poor lady
was taken ill as we passed through the moor. You know
the rest. As we stood at the cottage door, the pious dis-
course of the farmer tortured me past endurance. I was
several times on the point of rushing into the cottage, and
guarding my lady from the fiend ; but my evil genius
prevailed. When we entered and got the unsuspecting
couple to their bed, my tempter smiled, and whispered 'c All
is safe." I shuddered, and inquired what she meant.

" Oh, nothing," she replied. " The lady cannot recover ;
the woman of the house has given her a composing draught.
She will never awake. The money and jewels are our
own."

And cautiously she displayed before me more gold than
I had ever seen. I could not think of parting with it.
We carried off all that had belonged to my mistress, even
her body-clothes and the body of the dead babe, resolved to
shew it to my master, and impose upon him by saying that
his wife had died in childbed, and that we had left her to
be buried by the clergyman. Our object in this was to do
away all suspicion of unfair play. Our excuse for not
seeing the body interred was haste to inform him, and
prevent inquiries that might lead to his discovery. On the
day after we left the cabin, I found my master at the ap-
pointed place, in the utmost anxiety for the arrival of his
wife. Every hour of delay was attended by the utmost
danger. A government cruiser had been seen on the coast ;
and there were fears that the small vessel might be dis-
covered. Oh, moment that has ever since embittered my
life ! The agony he endured no human tongue can describe
He was in a state of distraction. I, with a guilty officious-
ness, displayed her wardrobe. He turned from it in an
agony The dead body of the babe he kissed and pressed
to his bosom. Low groans had as yet only escaped him ;
but suddenly, to my alarm, he resolved to go with me and
die on her grave. I trembled and felt a faintness come
over me — for I was then young in guilt. My associate,
hardened and inventive, began to urge the folly of the
attempt. He pushed her from him with violence, and
would have set out ; but at that moment word was given
that the cruiser was in sight, as if bearing for the land.
Two friends and some of the crew seized him, and by force
hurried him on board the vessel, and set sail. I felt as if
reprieved from death, and did not go on board; for I dreaded
the presence of my injured master. We returned to
Glasgow, where we remained for a few weeks, rioting on
the fruits of our guilt. One morning when I awoke after
a debauch, I found my companion fled, and all the gold
and valuables gone. I arose in a state of distraction, ran to
the port in quest of her ; but in vain — no vessel had sailed.
I proceeded to Greenock ; on the way I got traces of her,
and dogged her at every turn. My mind took a new di-
rection as I followed her. I looked upon her now as a fiend
that had led me to ruin, and left me, loaded with guilt, to
die under the pangs of poverty and an awakened conscience.
My mind was distracted. Holding up my hands to heaven,
I vowed vengeance, and cursed and swore in such a man-
ner that people on the road turned and looked at me, and
thought me mad. I was mad ; but it was the madness of
passion that burned in my brain, and the stings of con-
science that pierced my heart. I paused several times in
my pursuit I was told by one traveller that the woman
I sought was* not a mile from me, that she was sitting by
the road-side drinking ardent spirits alone, and muttering
strange words to herself. Ha ! thought I, conscience is
busy with her too, and she drinks to drown its dreadful

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

375

voice. " Shall I kill her ?" I said to myself. My heart
yearned for her blood. Why should I deny it ? I felt
that I required that satisfaction to enable me to live a little
longer upon earth. So much was my frenzy roused, that I
pictured to myself a total impossibility to live and breathe
if I did not feel the satisfaction of having visited on that
woman's head the evil she brought on that sweet lady who
died by her hands. Then did her beautiful face beam be-
fore me in full contrast with that of the hag who had led me
to ruin, to misery, to hell. Every thought inflamed me
more and more, and on I flew to the relief of my burning
brain. "Wretch ! How little did I think that, even in
meditating her death, who deserved that punishment, I
was only adding more and more power to my burning
conscience ? But all calculation of future accidents died
amidst my thirst of vengeance. Breathless I hurried on.
I had a dagger in my hand ready for the work of death. At
a turn of a beech wood, I saw her sitting by the road-side.
She was drinking spirits; and, as I approached, I heard her
muttering strange words — yet she was not intoxicated. She
was only under the power of the demons that ruled her.
Her back was to me, and she knew not of my approach.
I saw her take out the money and jewels she had stolen
from me, and for which, by her advice, I had sold my soul
to Satan. The sight again brought before me the horrid
crime I had committed. I saw the sweet lady before me,
extended in the grasp of death ; and conscience, with a
thousand fangs, tore at my heart. I grasped the dagger
firmer and firmer as she counted the money, and wrought
myself up to the pitch of a demon's fury. I advanced
quietly. She burst into a loud laugh as she finished the
counting of the gold. " Ha, ha, ha !" she cried — " I have"

she would have said " outwitted him/' but my dagger

fixed the word in her death-closed jaws. I struck her to
the heart through her back, and the word " outwitted" died
in her throat. She lay at my feet a corpse. I threw the
body in a ditch, and took up the money and jewels for
which I had sold my soul. I would have cast them away ;
but the devil again danced in the faces of the gold coins.
I put them in my pocket. The gold again corrupted me.
I drowned my conscience in drink at the next inn. I fled
into England, where I have lived by rapine ever since,
until the other day, when I returned to Scotland to meet
the fate I so well deserve, from the hands of the son of
those I had injured. Of my old master 1 have never heard
anything. If he is alive, he is still in France."

Life seemed only to have been prolonged until he had
made the horrid disclosure ; for he fell into convulsions
and expired, soon after the Colonel, whose wound had
become stiff and painful, had left the house. Next morn-
ing, William visited his friend, and was grieved to find
that he was rather feverish. His wound was still painful.
The occurrence of the proceeding evening occupied both
their minds. William had no doubt of his being the law-
ful son of Henry Seaton by Miss Somerville ; but was as
much in doubt as to whether his father was alive as ever.
In a few days, the Colonel was enabled to leave his bedroom,
and became convalescent. He urged the propriety of
William's proceeding to France in quest of his father ; and,
as the vessel was not yet to sail for a few days, he resolved
to pay a visit to his friend, the minister, to inform him of
his intentions, and relate the history of his mother's mur-
derers. The Colonel would have accompanied him ; but he
could not ride. He rode along to the manse, with feelings
very different from those with which he had left it. The
worthy minister rejoiced to see him, and held up his pious
hands at the horrid recital. He approved of William's
determination of going in quest of his father, and, after
paying a visit to his mother's and foster parents' graves, he
once more mounted to return to Edinburgh. As he rode
slowly along, musing upon the wayward fate of his parents,

unconscious of all around, he was roused by the tread of
horses' feet behind him. He looked back, and saw a gentle-
man attended by a servant in livery approaching. He
roused himself, and put his horse off the slow pace at which
he had been going. The stranger and he saluted each
other, and entered into conversation upon indifferent sub-
jects. At length they became interested in each other, and
found that they were both on the eve of sailing for France
in the same vessel. The stranger requested to have the
pleasure of knowing the name of his fellow-traveller.

" Seaton," said William, " is my name."

" Seaton, Seaton," said the other — " I am surprised I
did not recognise you before. I thought we had met be-
fore ; but your youth made me always doubt the truth of
my surmises. Colonel Henry Seaton was an intimate ac-
quaintance of mine — have I the pleasure of seeing his

arm ?"

son ?'

" I hope you have," replied William. '<• Pray, sir, when
saw you him last ? Was he in good health ?"

"It is some time since I left France/' said the other.
" At that time he was in his ordinary health ; but not more
cheerful than usual — always grave and sad as ever."

" Thank God !" cried William ; " he is, I trust, then, still
alive." And he pressed the stranger's hand with a warmth
that surprised him. " Where do you mean to stay," re-
sumed William, Cf until the vessel sails?"

" I have no relations," replied he, " in Edinburgh. I
meant to stay in an inn in the Canongate, where I have lived
before ; but it is all one to me — I may as well tarry in the
White Hart with you,"

When they arrived, William sent a cadie to give notice
to Colonel Gordon that he was arrived in town ; but was
detained upon business with a stranger, to whom he would
be happy to introduce him, as he was an acquaintance of
his father's, and had seen him within the last few years.
Soon after dinner, they were all seated at their wine, and
deep in conversation. The stranger had been, from what
he said, well acquainted with the exiled party in France,
and, more particularly, with Colonel Seaton ; feut he knew
nothing of his history, further than that he had lost a be-
loved wife and child at the time of his expatriation, and
had, both by friends here and every other means, en-
deavoured in vain to get any information of where she was
buried, or what had become of a faithful servant who had
not embarked with him in the confusion of his flight — that
on this account he was often oppressed by a lowness of
spirits, and had many suspicions that all had not been as it
ought to have been. This subject discussed, they would
have had recourse to politics ; but each seemed cautious ot
betraying his opinions, and the stranger, who did not seem
to relish much some of the sentiments that occasionally
escaped the Colonel, appeared to be a Tory. After the
Colonel departed, the conversation of William and Mi
Graham — for this was the gentleman's name — became more
pointed, and it appeared that he was on business connected
with the exiles. He had assumed that William was of his
own way of thinking in politics, and was evidently much
disappointed when he discovered that he was not. He be-
came much more reserved, but not less attached to him ;
for William gave him a general outline of his misfortunes
and early education, and they parted for the night with the
best opinion of each other. Next morning both proceeded
to Leith, where Graham expected to find a messenger from
the north with a packet of letters for him. When they
reached Leith, they found that the messenger had arrived
on the previous day, and was waiting for Mr Graham, who,
having several persons to visit in the neighbourhood,
William and he parted, agreeing to meet in the Colonel's to
supper. They met in the evening.

" I have been making some inquiries," said Mr Graham,
" about Colonel Henry Seaton, on your account, and am

376

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

happy to say that lie is well. I fear I shall not have the
pleasure of your company to France I have every reason
to believe that he is now in Scotland, or will be very soon.
Excuse me if I am not more particular. I shall, 1 hope, to-
morrow, or at least before the vessel sails, be able to give
you more particular information. I can rely, I think, upon
your honour, that no harm shall come from my confidence."
Both thanked him for the interest he took, and the good
news he had communicated. They parted for the night, all
in the best spirits— William anticipating the joy he should
feel at the sight of his parent, and the Colonel anxious to
see his old friend. Afterwards Mr Graham and William
occasionally met. Their evenings were spent with the
Colonel, and all party discussion carefully avoided. On the
evening of the fourth day after Mr Graham's last inform-
ation, William had begun to fear that the vessel might
sail before any certainty could be obtained ; and he was in
doubt whether to proceed with her or remain. Upon Mr
Graham's arrival, which was later than usual, he went
directly up to William —

" I have good news for you," said he. " Colonel Seaton
is at present in Scotland — somewhere in Inverness-shire. He
is the bearer of intelligence that will render it unnecessary
for me to proceed at present to France. I am, I confess,
much disappointed ; but you, I perceive, are not."

" From my soul I thank you," said William. " Where
shall I find my father •?"

" That is more than I can tell you," answered the other
>— " I cannot even tell the name he has at present assumed ;
all I know is, that he is +he bearer of intelligence from the
Prince that crushes for a time our sanguine hopes. The
fickle and promise-breaking Louis has again deceived us
The Prince, and the lukewarm, timid part of his adherents
the Avorshippers of the ascendant, refuse to act without his
powerful aid. His concurrence we have, and a prospect of
future aid at a more convenient season , but, bah ! for a
Frenchman's promise ! I am off from ever taking a leading
part again. I will wait the convenient season. I may be
led, but shall never lead again. He does not deserve a
crown that will not dare for it ; nor does he • deserve the
hearts of a generous people that would not dare everything
to free them from the yoke of a foreign tyrant. Excuse me
gentlemen — I go too far, and am giving you offence ; bu
I assure you it is not meant. My heart is full of bitterness
and I forget what I say."

The Colonel, whose blood had begun to inflame when

Graham checked himself, cooled and felt rather gratified a

the intelligence thus so unexpectedly communicated. H

felt for a generous mind crossed in its favourite object, how

ever much he thought that mind misled, from education am

early prejudice, and assured him he had already forgot his ex

pressions. A different turn was given to the conversation, b;

William's continued inquiries after his father. Grahair

meant to set off for the north in a few days, for a secret meet

ing of the heads of the disaffected, at which Colonel Seaton

was to communicate the message he had to them from France

He offered to be William's guide. The Colonel, whos

shoulder was now quite well, requested to accompany them

and on the Monday morning after, they crossed at Kinghor

and proceeded by the most direct route, passing through

Perthshire to the Highlands. They arrived at Glengarry

and found that Colonel Seaton was at the time on a visit

with the chief, to Glenelg, but would be back on the follow

ing day. There were a number of visiters at the castle, wit

all whom Graham was on the most intimate terms. Gordon

and William were introduced, and the latter was mos

cordially received, from the strong resemblance he bore to h

father. They got a guide tc conduct them to see the beaut

ful scenery around the house, and they were amusing them

selves admiring the grandeur of the mountain scenes, whe

the guide said, pointing to a bend in the road —

" Gentlemen, there is Glengarry."

They looked towards the spot, and could perceive two
>ersons on horseback, approaching in earnest conversation.
Villiam's heart beat quick — the reins almost dropped from
is hand — he felt giddy, and his temples throbbed as if they
vould have burst. They approached — they bowed to each
>ther — William's eyes were fixed upon the countenance of
is father, who returned his gaze, but neither spoke a word.
The Colonel said, in answer to the polite salutation, that
le and his young friend had had the honour to accompany
V'lr Graham on a visit.

" Has Graham come back so soon ?" he said, with surprise.
I feared as much; but, gentlemen, you are kindly welcome."
And he shook hands with them,

" Macdonald, what is this?" he said, turning to Seaton,
vho was absorbed in thought. " Here is a youthful counter-
>art of yourself !"

" My father !" exclaimed William,- as he leaped from his
lorse, and clasped his leg, leaning his face upon it, and
jedewing it with his tears.

" Young man," said Seaton, coldly, '•' you are mistaken ;
[ have no son." William lifted his hands in an imploring
manner, and the ring met his father's eye. " Good heavens !
what do I see !" he exclaimed, and sank forward, over-
powered by his feelings, upon his horse's neck. The chief
and the Colonel raised him up — the tears were streaming
from his eyes. " A thousand painful remembrances," said
he, " have quite unmanned me. Young man, you just
now called me father — where, for mercy's sake tell me, did
you get that ring?"

" It was found on the bosom of my dead mother,"
faltered William.

" Then you are my son !"

And the next moment they were locked in each other's
embrace. The chief and Gordon were moved. They
passed their hands hastily across their eyes.

" Dear father," said William, '•' have you forgot your old
friend and associate in arms — my best of friends ?"

Seaton for the first time looked to him, and, extending
his. disengaged hand, grasped the Colonel's ; saying —

<f Excuse me, Gordon — I am now too happy. I have
found a son and a brother."

They walked to the castle, and William detailed to his
father his mournful story. Often had he to stop, to allow
his father to give vent to his anguish.

"Ah, I often feared," said he, "that my Helen had
been hardly dealt with; but this I never did suspect.
Cursed villain ! and, oh ! my poor murdered Helen !"

They returned to the castle. It was agreed that Seaton
should still retain the name of Macdonald, until the
Colonel should obtain, through the influence of his friends,
a pardon for him. He also had lost all hopes of success
for the Prince, and wished to enjoy the company of his son,
visit the grave of his beloved wife., and, at death, be buried
by her side. All was obtained ; and Henry Seaton lived
for many years, blessed in the society of his son, who studied
the law, at the suggestion of the Colonel, and became dis-
tinguished in his profession.

WILSON'S

& antr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE MISER OF NEWABBEY.

IN the pretty little village of Newabbey, in the south of
Scotland, there lived one of those individuals which society
sometimes casts up, as the sea does its secret monsters,
formed apparently for no other purpose than to shew how
curiously operose nature can be in her productions, though
mankind, ever in search for final causes, may attempt to
wrest out of their eccentricities some moral to suit their
self-love, and, by producing a contrast, elevate themselves
in the scale of moral or physical beings. That strange per-
son, Cuthbert Grand ison — or, as he was generally termed,
Cubby Grindstane, by the corruptive ingenuity of his neigh-
bours— occupied a small mud cottage near the centre of the
village we have mentioned. He was considerably advanced
in age, and, having come to Newabbey at a late period of
his life, the people in that part of the country knew little of
his history — a circumstance they regretted in proportion to
the interest excited by the strange habits of the individual.
He was in person a little man; extremely spare; with a sharp,
keen, hungry look ; a grey hawk's eye, which, like the cat's,
seemed to enjoy the best vision collaterally, for the pupil
was almost always at the junction of the eyelids. On his
back there was a large hump, which, having the only
rotundity which his spare body presented, gave him the
appearance of a skeleton carrying a lump of beef; and, as
his mode of walking was quick and hurried, a quaint fancy
could not resist the additional suggestion, that he was
running home with it in order to satisfy the hunger that
shone through his fleshless form. The extraordinary ap-
pearance of such a wild and grotesque-looking individual,
in so small a village, could not fail to produce the usual
speculation among the high-mutched gossips, who, having
in vain made inquiries and exerted their wits as to his
origin, directed their attention to his habits, and especially
to the mode in which he earned his livelihood — for no one
could say he was ever seen to beg. But they were not
much more successful in these secondary inquiries and in-
vestigations ; because, (although it was certain that he had a
signboard, exhibiting the characters, " Cuthbert Grandison,
Cobbler" — an unusual and somewhat affected and gratuitous
depreciation of the votary of St Crispin — and sometimes sat
at his small window, perforating soles with his awl, and
filling up the holes with " tackets,") no one in the village
employed him, and he never condescended to ask any one
for work. If his operations thus afforded no proper clue to
his means of life, his conversation was, if possible, still more
sterile ; for, in place of associating with the other " snabs"
of the village, or joining the quidnuncs who assembled in
Widow Cruikshanks, to drink beer and " twine political
arguments" — a much harder labour than their day's work,
though they thought it a recreation — he locked himself,
and another individual, now to be mentioned, into the house
at an early hour of the evening, and refused to open it again
to however urgent a visiter.

The other individual who lived in Cuthbert's house, was

no other than a daughter, about eighteen years of age, called

Jean, as unlike her grotesque and mysterious parent as

any of God's creatures could be ; though every effort was

152. VOL. Ill

exerted, on his part, to make her as silent and incommuni-
cative as himself. She appeared to have received no edu-
cation ; her dress was of the most wretched kind ; and it
was even alleged by the neighbours, whose espionage ex-
tended even to the calculation of the quantity of meal and
milk purchased for the support of the father and the daugh-
ter, that she did not get sufficient food. These circumstan-
ces regarding the girl were the more readily remarked,
that, as all admitted, Jean, or, as she was familiarly called.
Jeanie Grandison, would, if she had been treated like other
individuals of her age, have excelled the greater number of
young women of the village, not only in personal appear-
ance, but in the qualities of her mind and heart. She
apparently stood in great awe of her strange parent, and
uniformly rejected all solicitations, on the part of the vil-
lagers, to join them in their sports, or partake of their little
entertainments. •••• The story of the mysterious treatment to
which she was subjected, excited the sympathies of the
neighbours; and her own amiable manners and meek deport-
ment, exhibiting the indications of a crushed spirit, riveted
the regard which had been first elicited by her apparent
misfortunes.

The studied seclusion which Grindstane observed, and
seemed determined to vindicate against all attempts on the
part of the neighbours to " draw him out," rendered it
difficult to obtain any insight into the domestic economy of
his strange domicile ; and accident, at last, brought about
what might otherwise not have been easily accomplished.
It was observed that, for a considerable time, his daughter
had been ailing. She made no complaints to any one ; but
the quick eye of sympathy soon discovered what was appa-
rently attempted to be concealed. The wife of John Moni-
laws, a grocer and meal-dealer, from whom Jeanie bought
the small portion of provisions her father required, observed
and noticed the change that had taken place upon her, and
urged her to reveal her complaint, and apply to the surgeon
of the village for relief. She smiled sorrowfully at the ex-
hibition of a sympathy to which she was so much a stranger,
and which she was not permitted to avail herself of; thanked
Mrs Monilaws for her kind intentions ; and assured her she
was not much out of her usual condition of health. Two
days afterwards, the good dame was astonished by the
grotesque appearance of the mysterious Cubby himself,
standing by the side of her counter. It was seldom ie was
to be seen, far less spoken to ; and, as she looked on the
man whom report had invested with attributes of an unusual
kind, a shiver came over her, which the presence of her
husband, who, having seen Cubby enter the shop, followed
him from mere curiosity, was required to counteract.

" I want to buy some bread/' said he, slowly.

" "What kind ?" said Mrs Monilaws.

" A kind I hae aften asked Jeanie to get," replied he ;
" but my een are never blessed wi' the sight o't."

" Ye may hae't, if we hae't, Cuthbert Grindstane," said
John.

" Hae ye ony auld weathered bread," said he, " that has
seen the sun for a week, and fules winna buy f'rae ye ?"

" Ay hae we," replied the mistress — " owre muckle o'
that. There's some our John is to boil up for the pigs. It's
moulded as green as turf-sod. Butyehae nae pigs, Cuthbert ? '

3J8

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

" Pigs anew— pigs anew/' replied he. " What's the price

o' that ?" .

" It's scarce worth onything," replied the honest woman.
" It's seldom I sell whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye
may hae't a'thegither for a penny."

" That's owre muckle, guid woman," said Cubby. " A
bawbee, eke a farthin, is the hail value o't. I'll gie nae
mair."

" I dinna deal in farthins," replied she.

" Dinna deal in farthins !" ejaculated Cubby with sur-
prise. " Is a farthin no the fourth part o' yer ain price
o' a' that bread, sufficient to keep a moderate man for a
week ?"

" He would be a very moderate man that wad eat it,"
said John. " I was even dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o'
my pigs wi't, though boiled in whey."

" Whey !" ejaculated Cubby again — " do ye gie yer pigs
whey ? They maun hae a routhy stye. Will ye hae my
code ?"

" Ye may tak it for naething," said the mistress. " Hoo
is Jeanie ? — she was complainin last time I saw her."

" Complainin !" said he, as he with the greatest avidity
seized the bread, and stuffed it into his pockets. " Did the
lassie complain ? What did she complain o' ? No surely
that she didna get her meat." And he looked fearfully and
inquiringly into the face of Mrs Monilaws.

" She looked in an ailing way," said the mistress ; " an' I
thought she was ill."

" She's owre fat — an ill complaint," replied he, apparently
wishing to get away.

" I dinna see that," said Mrs Monilaws.

" But I baith see't an' feel't," replied he with a grin.
" Guid nicht."

" I pity the puir lassie," said Mrs Monilaws, after Cubby
went away, " wha's doomed to live wi' that man. That's
a puir supper for the stamach o' an unweel cratur ; an' I've
a' my doots if she's no at this moment confined to her strae
bed. Is there nae way o' gettin her out o' his hands ?
The Laird o' Cubbertscroft wants a servant, an' I pro-
mised to get ane to him. Jeanie wad answer better than
ony other lass in a' Newabbey, but I canna see her to speak
to her ; for, though she comes here, naebody can gae to her."

" There seemed to be something strange," replied John,
" in Cubby's manner, when ye asked him about Jeanie. If
he gaes lang his ain errands, an' she doesna mak her ap-
pearance, I'll conclude, frae what I hae seen an' heard, that
there's something wrang. That man has the heart to starve
ane o' God's creatures — ay, his ain dochter — to death.
What mortal could live on that meat he has taen hame wi'
him this nicht ? Keep an ee on them, Marion ; an', if
Jeanie doesna sune shew hersel, I'll mak sma' scruple in
visitin the lion's den."

Some days afterwards, Cubby again made his appearance
at the counter of John Monilaws ; and there being no more
old bread for him, he struck a long contested bargain about
some " fuisted" meal, that had been long in the shop, and
for which he offered far beneath its real value ; but Mrs
Monilaws, thinking him poor and miserable, accepted his
offer, though she had scarcely done so when she repented
of her generosity, for she immediately concluded that her
kindness was a species of cruelty, in so far as she was ac-
cessary to sending, in all likelihood to an invalid, food that
was not suited even to a robust beggar. As he greedily
grasped, and carried away like a thief, the article he had
purchased, she asked again for his daughter ; but she got
less satisfaction on this occasion, than even on the last, for
his only answer was—" What's the use o' speerin for weel
folk?" The suspicions of Mis Monilaws were roused,
rather than allayed, by this answer, and the manner in
which it was delivered, and she lost no time in telling her
husband, that he might get some of the neighbours to ac-

company him, and go and inquire for the young girl, who,
if ill, ought to be taken from the house ; or, if well, might
be feed — whether old Grindstane was agreeable or not — for
the service at Cubbertscroft.

At the moment that Mrs Monilaws and her husband were
engaged talking about this strange individual and his
daughter, Carey Cuthbert — the third son of William Cuth-
bert of Cuthbert's, or, as it was called, Cubbertscroft, a fine
property in the neighbourhood — entered the shop, with a
message from Mrs Cuthbert, for articles for the use of the
family, and a request to know if any suitable servant had
yet been procured by Mrs Monilaws. This young man,
who was about eighteen years of age, was reputed by his
parents as unfit for sustaining, even so far as a third son
might sustain, the honour and respectability of the Cuth-
berts of Cubbertscroft. He was represented as being so
dull that he would learn nothing ; and, at the same time, so
fond of associating with inferior people, that he could scarcely
have been recognised, either from his conversation or man-
ners, as the son of a gentleman. His bluntness, kindness,
and humility, however, pleased all those with whom his
father did not wish him to associate. With many of the
humble inhabitants of Newabbey he was on the most fa-
miliar footing ; and nothing pleased him better than to get
into the village, where, on every side, he could find compa-
nions of the grade that suited his (as his father termed it)
depraved taste. In these humbler societies, however, Carey
learned what perhaps he would not have done from the
Greek and Latin books which, at school, were eternally in
his hands, and never in his head. Like most other indivi-
duals, whether fools or wits, he had a genius of his own ;
and, as the worms on which the mole feeds are larger and
fatter than the flying insects that form the food of the swal-
low, humility, and a taste for the common sense that, like
water, is best and purest the farther down you go, may be
vindicated on the grand principle of utility and interest.
We do not give a young man of eighteen credit for an
a priori knowledge that his interests lay in searching among
the humble for that " lear" that could not be got among the
sons of the great ; but we may safely assert, that nature had
placed in him an instinctive liking for the simple and the
natural, and he might soon perceive, without any spirit of
divination, that, by following nature as his guide, he might
arrive at a more satisfactory termination of his journey,
than his horse-racing brothers, William and George, who
were fast flying through their father's estate. He had
nearly already, however, been given up as untractable ; his
speech, as his mother said, had been Scotch from the first
lisp ; his ideas had been of the earth, from the first mo-
ment he crawled upon it ; and the servants his companions,
from the time he was able to escape, by the aid of his own
feet, from the nursery.

As soon as Carey had delivered his message, he conceived
he had thrown off the servitude imposed upon him by his
mother, who considered him of no other use than to carry a
verbal communication to the village. Entertaining a verj
different opinion of Carey's powers, John Monilaws told him
of the strange conduct of Cubby Grindstane, (whom he alsc
well knew, as indeed every person in the neighbourhood, :
in endeavouring to conceal the illness of his daughter, whc
was the individual to be recommended to his mother as £
servant. Carey confessed he thought the conduct of Cubbj
very suspicious, and, with a knowing look, hinted that il
had been long his intention to endeavour to ascertain some-
thing more of the old cobbler than the people of Newabbe*
yet knew.

" It is just you Gallants," said John, " wha are best a<
thae things. When I was like ye, there wasna a house tap
in a' Newabbey I didna ken as weel as the sparrows that
biggit their nests in them. There are queerer sights seen i
the warld, by lookin down than by lookin up, for a' that

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

379

astronomers may say on the subject. It was I that disco-
vered Marion Muschet killin her new-born bairn wi' a
pack-thread. I saw her through her ain skylicht ; an',
though I had nae power to speak, I had plenty o' pith
i' my legs ; but, fule that I was, I forgot that, lang afore I
could get assistance, the pack-thread wad hae dune its wark.
Sae it was — the face o' the bairn was as blue as my bannet,
when, by my means, it was discovered."

" An' muckle ye got for yer sky-larkin," said Mrs Mo-
nilaws. " Ye hanged the puir woman, an' got the name
o' Skylicht Johnnie, whilk ye hae carried about wi' ye ever
since, and will do till the day ye dee."

" Ay, Marion," answered the good-natured husband, " I
hae taen nane o' time flights sin' I married ye. Ye keep
ine weel down. I suffered weel i' my young days for look-
in down ; but I fear I wad suffer mair noo for lookin up.
But the deil's no buried i' Kirkaldy, if I wadna hae a blink
through Cubby Grindstane's skylicht, were my legs as
soople as Mr Carey Cuthbert's there, an' I had nae wife on
my back."

Carey looked and smiled, and said nothing ; but his mind
was not so inactive as his tongue.

''Ye wad be nearer yer purpose, John," said Marion,
" if ye wad tak wi' ye oor neebor, John Willison, a godly
elder o' the kirk, an' gae bauldly in at the door. John will
tak wi' him prayers, an' ye some o' my jellies. I never
kenned ony guid come by a skylicht — 'except, maybe,
Widow Gairdner's ; wha was sittin ae nicht, thinkin whar
she wad get her supper ; an', as she thought, an' thought,
nn' was nae better or fu'er for thinkin, a man fell frae
the roof at her feet, an', throwin frae him sixteen gowd
guineas wi' pure fear, flew out at the door as if Beelzebub
an' a' his angels had been after him. Widow Gairdner got
her supper that nicht. Naebody ever asked for the guineas ;
but it was weel kenned frae whase hoose they were stown."

"Ah, Marion, Marion," said John, laughing; "an' sae
ye forget yer ain mither's skylicht, through whilk I used to
gae to court ye."

" An' I do nae sic things, John," replied Mrs Monilaws,
jocularly; "ye never brocht sixteen gowd guineas wi' ye
when ye cam doon through my mither's skylicht, to court
her dochter."

This conversation was not lost upon Carey Cuthbert,
although he said nothing. lie laughed heartily at the dry
humour of the honest, happy couple, and went to visit his
other friends in the village. In the afternoon, he was
seen studying like a painter the form and appearance of
old Grindstane's house, and did not leave the village till
the evening. As soon as it was sufficiently dark, he re-
paired again to the old black domicile ; and having during
daylight taken his eye- draughts, he tried if he could observe
what was going on in the inside of the house from the
small window in the side-wall, or from a small round hole
in the gable. Both apertures were, however, completely
closed, the greatest care having apparently been taken, not
only to shut the crazy shutters, but to stuff up the holes
with pieces of rags, and to cover up all with a cloth hung
from the inside so as to cover all the interior part of the
windows. Carey saw, however, enough to satisfy him that
the inmates had not retired to rest ; for there was light in
the cottage, and he thought he observed that it moved as
if some one were carrying a lamp from one part of the
interior to another. He heard no sounds ; for the indi-
vidual who moved the light walked softly, as if he wished
to avoid making any disturbance.

" We hae nae hope upon earth," said Carey to himself,
quaintly ; " I maun tak for ance my mither's counsel, an'
soar — though, I fear, crawlin on thatched roofs is no the
kind o' ambition she wants me to flee at."

With these words, and a smile on his face, Carey went
along, and, by the aid of a tree, mounted to the top of the

| house adjacent to Cubby's. Resisting a strong temptation
to peep into the interior of this house, which presented a
very clear, open, and convenient skylight, through which
many secrets might have been discovered, he slipped softly
along, and laid himself on the thatch of Cubby's house,
with his feet in the spout, and his head on the small aper-
ture, covered with one pane of yelked glass, through which,
if any light had been in the interior, he could very easily
have seen all that went on in the inside of the cottage.
All, however, was dark as pitch — a circumstance which
appeared to him somewhat strange, as he was certain he
had seen light in the house before he mounted ; but to be
accounted for sufficiently easily, by supposing that the light
had been extinguished during the time he had been oc-
cupied in getting up. He had no hopes now of seeing
anything that night; but, as he was there at any rate, (so
he argued,) he might as well rest himself a little, aftei
the fatigues of a day spent running about in various di-
rections, and he might perhaps hear something, if he
could see nothing ; a mode of acquiring knowledge he had
less objection to than to the ocular exercises on printed
paper, so much recommended by his parents and Dominie
Blackletter — a creature he hated.

Having lain quietly for some time, he heard, very dis-
tinctly, hollow moans, coming from the lower part of the
house. They were of the most unearthly kind he had ever
heard, suggesting, as they struck the pained ear, the idea
of some one suffering the last pangs of mortal agony.
These were mixed, or alternated, with occasional harsh
objurgatory notes, coming from another person, apparently
a man, and supposed, by Carey, to be Cubby Grandison
himself. These were followed by a scream, which appeared
to be stifled towards its conclusion, as if some one had
applied a cloth or other obstruction to the mouth of the
individual giving vent to the unbearable agony. The
scream marked the individual as a female, and Carey set
her down as the unfortunate daughter of whom he had
heard John Monilaws and his wife talking in the fore part
of the day. These sounds continued for a considerable
time. The groans, the objurgations, the scream stifled as
before, succeeded each other ; and then, for a time, a deep
silence reigned throughout the interior, only to be inter-
rupted again, by a repetition of the same sounds. At last,
a louder scream than any he had yet heard, burst from the
mouth of the sufferer, and, in an instant, a noise, as of some
one falling over chairs, was heard, and then a sudden
stifling of the scream, accompanied by the objurgatory and
menacing voice of a man, whose anger seemed to increase
with the necessity of an increase of his efforts to stop the
complaint of the sufferer. This scream was the last that
Carey heard. A deep silence again reigned, and a full
quarter of an hour passed without any indications being
perceived of the presence of a living person in the cottage.

Having waited for a considerable time without hearing
anything further, Carey concluded that the suffering indi-
vidual had been suffocated, and was on the eve ^of getting
down to give an alarm. His attention was again arrested
by a new phenomenon. A light was now observable
through the chinks of an apparent partition between the
skylight and the under or main part of the house, an un-
usual occurrence in Scotch cottages, which have generally
no garret, or any other apartment than what extends from
roof to ceiling. A noise was now heard, as of some one
trying to open a locked door. Success attended his efforts
arid, in a little time, a small door, sufficient to let in the body
of a man in a crawling posture, opened, and discovered the
face and upper part of the body of Cuthbert Grandison,
holding in his hands a small cruisie, which sent forth a
doubtful, glimmering light, scarcely sufficient to do more
than shew the high bones and grey eye of the strange
individual who held it. The door being opened he placed

380

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

the cruisie into the small apartment into which it led,
whereby Carey was enabled to see the nature of the place,
and its extraordinary contents. As he surveyed them, he
shook with terror, and was once afraid that his perturbation
would discover him. The apartment was a place in the
form of a small garret, extending to about a half the size of
the under apartment of the cottage ; and seemed to have
been formed after the house was built, for the purpose to
which it was devoted. Casting his eye around and round,
what struck the fearful observer first, was a skeleton
of a human being, lying extended along the floor, and
half enveloped in the darkness, which the glimmering
taper only partially illuminated. It had been the first
human skeleton Carey had ever seen; and the circumstances
under which he now beheld it, shining principally by the
borrowed light of its bleached bones, and suggesting some
mysterious connection between the being whose physical
system it once supported, and the extraordinary individual
who held this strange piece of household furniture, rendered
the sight appalling and horripilant. On a chest at the
other side of the apartment lay another skeleton, apparently
that of a new-born child, whose tiny shanks, worm-like
finger bones, and small head, formed a striking and painful
contrast to its full-grown companion — suggesting the proba-
bility of some kindred blood having once warmed the
sapless bones, and some kindred fate having dried it
up, leaving these dry tokens as the only monument of their
sorrows and misfortunes. Around on all sides were large
packages cased with iron, and sitting on a small hook at-
tached to the wall near the ceiling was another inhabitant
of this living cemetery, which, from the singularity of its
aspect, its silence, and its locality, excited as much terror
in Carey as even the skeleton. This was no other than a
large grey owl, sitting as demure as grimalkin, with its
goggle eyes at their utmost stretch, glaring in the light of
the taper like fiery balls, and rolling as if in anger at being
interrupted by the intruder in its enjoyment of eating amouse,
which, dead and mangled, was firmly clenched in its claws.
The few minutes that served Carey to examine these ex-
traordinary appearances, whose reality he doubted against
all the clearness of his rubbed eyes, enabled Cuthbert
Grandison to crawl into the place, through the limited
aperture opening in its side. The moment he got in, he
shut the door carefully, and threw his eyes up to the pane
of glass through which Carey was looking, without, however,
observing him, as he instantly drew back his head. When
Carey again directed his eyes to the object of his curiosity
and awe, he was lying prostrate by the side of the bones of
the larger skeleton. He then rose up, threw a look of re-
cognition to the owl, who went on with his repast, heedless
of the ceremony with which he had been honoured. The
necromantic appearance, attitude, and acts of the hunch-
backed living skeleton, who thus stood as it were in the
midst of the dead, communing with them by a secret and
mysterious power, realized in the mind of the neophyte
all the stories he had heard and read of the wonderful and
the terrific. The subsequent conduct of the performer was
not less extraordinary. His ceremonies and operations oc-
cupied a full hour. Everything was noticed by Carey ; and,
if what we have attempted to describe produced wonder,
what we have at present abstained from narrating, from a
regard to what is due to the importance of other circum-
Btances waiting for detail, was not calculated to lessen
that feeling.

Carey having got down again from the roof top, hurried
away home at the top of his speed ; for he had staid too long,
and was certain of a scold from his parents, for having been
seduced into low practices, by the vulgar inhabitants of the
village. A confusion in the house, produced by a poinding
having been that day executed, but removed by payment of
the debt which had been incurred by the eldest son, William,

and corroborated by the indulgent father, saved him from
the abuse which awaited him. Though young, he had
ense enough to see the folly of the proceedings of his father
and brothers, and sighed as he retired to his couch, in the
anticipation of a greater evil impending over the house of
Cuthbert, than the humble-mindedness of its third son. The
anticipated misfortunes of his father, and the recollection of
the extraordinary sights he had witnessed from the roof
top of Cubby Grandison, kept him awake during the greater
part of the night. His meditations took various turns.
The abuse to which he was daily exposed at the hands of
his parents and brothers, produced an ambition of shewing
himself worthy of their regard, and even of saving them
from the ruin that seemed to await them ; but the schemes
whereby that was to be accomplished, formed in a youthful
mind, fell far short of the wishes which produced them. In
the morning, he was duly catechised as to the cause of his
being so late in coming home ; but he chose rather to be
subjected to the suspicion of having been in the company
of Sandy Ferrier the smith, or Geordie Mactubbie the cooper,
or any other humble, but witty denizen of Newabbey,
whose laugh caught his ready sympathies, than divulge the
secrets of his evening's adventures, on the house top of
Cubby Grindstane the cobbler.

Next day it was absolutely necessary — so at least thought
Carey Cuthbert — that he should again see John Monilaws,
about his mother's servant, though he had no new commis-
sion from her to execute, connected with that affair ; and
giving Gideon Blackletter and his Greek and Latin books
the slip, he hastened again to Newabbey, now become a
much more interesting place than Cubbertscroft.

" Ye've got nae intelligence yet, I fancy, Mrs Monilaws,
aboot my mither's servant ?" he said, as he entered the shop
of the gaucy dealer in many wares.

" No yet, Mr Carey," replied she. " There's been a con-
sultation atween Elder Willison an' John, as to the time o'
their visit to Cubby's den, as they ca' it. They're speakin
o' four o'clock. They want a stout young chiel wi' them, for
fear o' accidents. As you're a little interested i' the affair,
an' fond o' sichts, maybe ye may condescend to accompany
them ?"

" I've nae objections," answered Carey. " Is there ony
other livin creature supposed to be i' the house, but Cubby
an' his dochter ?"

" No," answered the mistress, " if indeed ane o' thae twa
even be livin : but few folk can tell muckle aboot the inside o'
Cubby Grindstane's house, for he has a way o' meetin
visiters at the door, an', stanin richt i' the gap, speaks them
fair, an' gets them awa as sune as he can."

" Was he ever married, ken ye ?" said Carey, u or did
ye ever hear o' ony ither body that lived wi' him ?"

" I dinna ken," replied she. " He hasna had a wife sin
he cam to Newabbey."

" Is his dochter Jeanie, wham ye intend for my mither's
servant, like her father ?" said Carey.

l< As unlike as ony twa creatures can be," replied Mra
Monilaws. " He's a hunchbacked scarecraw, an' she's
a bonny young lassie, whase beauty, a' the ill usage and
starvation she has suffered, hasna been able to tak the
blume frae ; but muckle, I fear, that blume winna stand
muckle langer, if indeed death hasna already blawn the
witherin gouch o' his breath on't. But this day will expose
a' the secrets o' the inside o' that house."

" I see nae great reason," replied Carey, " for supposin
there's ony great secret aboot it."

"What maks him keep a'body oot, then, Mr Carey,
man ?" said the mistress. " What gies him that side-look,
that fearfu girn, an' his slouchin walk ? What maintains
him ? — for he works nane ; and why winna Jeanie speak
abune her breath when she sees him, or answer, when he'a
awa, ony question aboot him or his hoose ?"

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

381

"A' prejudice, Mrs Monilaws," replied Carey ; "auld
wire's wind eggs, hatched, nae doot, by a covey o' them,
as they sit thegither till they clock. The puir man doesna
want to be fashed wi' a set o' meddlin neebors."

At four o'clock, Elder Willison, John Monilaws, and
Carey, went to the house of Cubby Grindstane. The door
Was locked. They knocked, and asked admittance.

" What want ye ?" said a rough voice from within.

" We hae some shoes to get mended," said John Moni-
laws.

" I'm ill, an' no in a mendin way the day/' replied Cubby.
" Gang awa to Jamie Goodawls."

" Jamie has owre muckle to do, and tauld us to gang
to Cubby Grindstane," said the godly elder.

" My awl's my ain," said Cubby, in worse humour ; " an'
sae lang as it's no thirled to the soles o' men, I'm free frae
the power o' their bodies. Awa wi' ye !"

" You're in my district, Cubby," said the elder, " an' I
hae the command o' Mr Singer, oor minister, to ca' upon
ye, and inquire for the state o' yer soul, whilk, to reverse
yer puir pun, is, we fear, owre closely thirled to yer all.
Yer dochter has also a soul to be saved ; and Mr Singer
says he never saw you or her i' the kirk."

" Weel, if I dinna trouble him, he has nae richt to
trouble me," replied Cubby. " I say again, awa wi' ye !
The law says a man's hoose is his castle, an it says true."

" That's an unfortunate allusion," whispered Carey to
John Monilaws. " Castles are made to be attacked."

"• An to be defended," answered Cubby, who had over-
heard the remark.

Carey applied his powerful back to the crazy door, and, in
an instant, threw it open, overturning at the back of it a
number of pieces of old furniture, placed as props or de-
fences, to prevent its being opened. The party entered,
and, in an instant, were in the middle of the cottage, which
was in two divisions — one end being occupied by a small
truckle bed, on which a human body lay extended ; and the
other, which Carey remarked was under the small garret
where he had observed the nocturnal rites, presented no-
thing but a few broken stools ; some straw in one corner,
over which a dirty sheet and a blanket were spread ; a fire,
with about as much live coal in it as a hand might hold, as
well for quantity as activity of heat ; a small cupboard, with
a padlock on it of twice the value of the article it guarded,
presenting some bones that had once, and while another's
property, been covered with roasted meat, and seemed by
their whiteness to have been four or five times boiled, with
the remnant of the fuisted meal purchased from Mrs Moni-
laws.

" This is a strange way," said Cubby, as he went to what
might have been called the butt end of the cottage — " this is
a strange fashion o' bringin the word o' God to folk that
dinna want it."

" We are tauld," replied the elder, " to strive for the
repentance o' sinners."

" Ay, but ye're no tauld to brak open folks' doors, to
force them to repent," replied Cubby. " Besides, Mr Wil-
lison, whar's the shoon Jamie Goodawl said he couldna
mend, and sent ye to me wi' ? Amang sins to be repented
o', a lee is a very guid ane to begin wi'."

" Hoo's Jeanie, yer dochter?" said the elder, who was
fairly caught by Cubby.

" What should ail her ?" said Cubby, looking suspiciously,
and moving between them and the other apartment.

" That's just what we want to ken," said John Monilaws,
pushing Cubby a little to the side, and moving slowly into
the other division, folloAved by the elder and Carey.

The sight that here presented itself to them, as they ap-
proached the small truckle bed, and folded down the top of the
only blanket that covered the body of a female, was of the
most wretched and pitiful character. It was with the greatest

difficulty that John Monilaws could recognise the features
of Jeanie Grandison, (for such the invalid was,) reduced, by
the ill-matched pair, famine and disease, to the last stage
of existence. The bloom Avhich Mrs Monilaws feared for
was indeed withered, and the stalk which supported the
flower attenuated to a fibre. Pale as a corpse/and emaci-
ated beyond the lowest state of body that keeps burning
the lamp of life, it appeared doubtful, in the absence of
motion, whether she should be classed among living mortals.
The approach of strangers seemed to produce no effect upon
her ; for her eyelids, which about half covered the glazed
orbs, remained stationary, and no symptoms of breathing
could be discovered. At the side of the bed, stood a three-
footed stool, on which was placed a tin tankard, containing
some cold water, and a small bowl, with about an ounce of
cold porridge (made, no doubt, of part of the meal seen in
the press) in the bottom of it, no part of which seemed
marked by the rusty iron spoon that lay alongside of the
dish.

" Why did ye say to my wife, Cubby, that that lassie
was weel, when it's scarcely possible to observe in her a
spark o' life ?"

" And what guid wad it hae dune to hae said she was
ill ?" replied Cubby. " I canna pay for possets an' puddins
recommended by auld wives ; an' a doctor is far ayont my
degree or ability."

" Ye micht hae begged assistance, then," said John.
" Naebody wad hae refused a bite or a sup to ane o' God's
creatures, lyin at the point o' death."

" The folk hereabout," replied Cubby, " are owre proud
o' their bites and sups, no to come an' enjoy the luxury o'
seein their charity applied, and gettin their lugs lined wi'
the return o' gratitude. A house fu' o' folk, an' a pouch
wi' three farthins i' the corner o't, dinna sort weel thegither.
Besides, what mair can ony sick body get than meat and
drink ?"

" An' do ye ca' that meat and drink ?" said John, point-
ing to the porridge and water.

" What wad you ca' it ?" replied Cubby, grinnin. " I
wish I may get nae waur to comfort me when I come to
dee."

' c If the fear of expense," said Carey, " has prevented ye
frae lettin the neebors ken o' yer daughter's illness, wad-
na the same cause hae prevented ye frae tellin o' her
death ? A funeral costs siller — what wad ye hae dune wi'
the body ?"

Cubby seemed moved by this question, and eyed the
speaker suspiciously and fearfully.

" What's that to ye, callant ?" he said at last. " A man's
nae great mechanic wha canna ca' thegither four white
deals ; and they that carry to the grave dinna trouble ane
by coming back to ask for their fare, as other carriers do."

" She'll no be ill to carry, puir thing," said John Moni-
laws. " The only weight about her will be that o' death,
whilk they say is great even in a bird, Whar does her
mither lie ?"

" Whar should she lie ?" replied Cubby, again put into a
state of agitation, remarked particularly by Carey. " Think
ye she's no in her grave ?"

" I hae little doot o' that, Cubby/' said the other ; " but
I hope puir Jeanie hears naething o' a' this."

On looking at the invalid, all parties were surprised to
see her looking up in their faces, apparently comprehend-
ing every word they said.

" Ye're better, I think, Jeanie," said John.

" I dinna ken," replied the poor maiden. " Ask my
faither. I can say naething about mysel. He'll answer for me."

"• Hae ye been gettin ony meat except this crowdy an'
Adam's wine ?" again said the other.

" My faither kens best what kind o' wine I hae been
| gettin," replied she.

382

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

"Wine !" ejaculate,! Cubby— "God.keep me an' my house
frae sic extravagance ! Mair souls an' siller hao been
drooned in that liquor than in the Dead Sea, whilk bauds
Sodom and Gomorah."

" An' some bodies hae been saved wi't," said John, taking
out a small bottle and a glass, and emptying some wine,
which, by holding up the poor invalid, he endeavoured to
prevail upon her to taste.

Cubby turned up his eyes and his hands to heaven.
Jeanie looked fearfully at her father; and refused to taste
the \\ ine, though her lips were as withered leaves.

" The taste o't will never leave her mouth," ejaculated
Cubby. " Awa wi' you an' your wine ! Is my bairn to be
corrupted, an' her faither lookin on ? What can be expected
o' ane wha has swalloAved three hail pennies at ae gulp?
God hae mercy on us !"

" You seem to want yer dochter dead," said the elder.
' The Lord has sent us thae things to be used, and no
abused. Paul says, ' Drink no longer water, but use a little
wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often infirmities.' "

«• I'll no tak that," replied Cubby, " on the faith o' ane
wha said he cam here wi' shune to mend, when his true
errand was to corrupt the stamach o' my dochter. Paul
had mair sense than learn folk thae evil habits."

'• Shew me a Bible, an' I'll point ye out the passage,"
said the elder.

" I may thank the Bible," replied Cubby ; " for the auld
ane I ance had, an' whilk I sauld for half-a-crown to
Geordie Bookless o' Dumfries, kept me an' Jeanie livin
for five weeks — sae I hae naething to say against that guid
buik ; but I haena been able to buy a second. Ye may
noo gang yer ways. Ye see that neither yer wine nor
yer text is o' ony use in this house."

" Will you alloo her to tak onything else, then. Cubby,
if my wife sends it to ye?" said John Monilaws.

" It's no often ye hear o' a puir penniless cratur like me
refusin onything that wad save his stock o' three guid
farthins. I wad tak ony gift but luxuries,, provided the
giver didna want entrance to my house ; but that's impos-
sible. A' that gie think they hae a richt to enter yer
house as they like. Sae I dispense wi' yer gifts. Awa wi'
you and them baith !"

" It's in vain to fecht wi' him," whispered Carey into
the ear of John Monilaws. fl It's clear the lassie will dee
if she's no removed. I'll baud Cubby, if you an' the elder
will lift the truckle-bed bodily, an' carry the lassie an' it
thegither into yer ain house."

This communication was approved of, and conveyed to
the elder. A sign was given by Carey, who instantly
seized Cubby by the shoulders; while, the door being opened,
the two others lifted with the greatest ease the small couch,
and, to the great surprise of the neighbours, who rejoiced in
the proceeding, carried it with the poor victim into John's
house, where the humane mistress, who had a liking for
Jeanie, received her with pleasure, and proceeded to con-
tribute to her ease and recovery. The greatest terror was
evinced by Cubby on being let free from the powerful grasp
of Carey. He flew out of the house like one distracted,
(yet locking, even in his hurry, the door,) forced himself
through the crowd into John Monilaws' house, and, by
threats, imprecations, supplications, and even bribes, en-
deavoured to get possession of his daughter. His conduct
appeared to the people inexplicable. The starvation of his
daughter, and the affection (for what else could it be that
produced his anxiety?) that suggested such means of regain-
ing possession of her, appeared inconsistent; and if the
sanity of the individual had not, by his conversation, been
well established, he would have been. considered a madman.
His violence arose to such a pitch that it was found neces-
sary to guard the door ; and it was only after some feigned
attempt to break into his^ own house, which seemed to

terrify him even more than the detention of his daughter,
that he was forced home, and the poor girl was left unmo-
lested under the charge of Mrs Monilaws.

Meanwhile, Jeanie, being kindly treated and attended by
a surgeon, recovered with a quickness proportioned to the
powers of reaction of a youthful constitution, acting on a
system once more restored to the enjoyment of what Dr
Leechman called the non- naturals. Her natural beauty,
which had never yet got fair play, began to shew itself;
and her simple and timid manners, produced by the dreadful
tyranny under which she had lived, excited a deep interest
in her protectors and preservers. She never, however,
could be prevailed upon to speak of her father, or of any-
thing connected with the house. A shudder passed over
her when his name was mentioned ; and she expressed an
anxiety either to be put beyond his power or again restored
to him, an alternative which was not well understood by
her protectors, but sufficiently explained by the dangers to
which she would be exposed if she were made accessible
to him when he was under the influence of the fits of terror;
excitement, and anxiety, he had exhibited already on more
than one occasion, and, perhaps, partly to be accounted for
by some secret cause which she could not be prevailed
upon to divulge. She was quite agreeable to go to Cub-
bertscroft as a servant ; and it was arranged that she
should accordingly proceed there as soon as she had totally
recovered. Grieved for her want of education, Mrs Moni-
laws procured, for her instruction in reading and writing,
the services of the village schoolmaster, who attended her
daily after she was able for the exercise, and was much
gratified by the rapid progress she made (for she was oi
quick parts) under his zealous tuition.

During all this period, Jeanie Grandison was regularly
visited by Carey Cuthbert, whose interest in her, though
he had not then seen her, commenced from the eventful
evening when he made the awful discoveries we have
partly detailed, through her father's skylight : and had in-
creased from the moment he saw the first tint of the bloom
of returning health on her pallid cheek, and heard the sounds
of her clear melodious voice, though exercised only in the ex-
pressions of the sentiments of a half-broken, timid, yet grate-
ful heart. When properly restored to health, Jeanie was sent
out under the protection of John Monilaws and Carey, (who,
however, left them before he approached the house,) to
Cubbertscroft, where she entered upon her service. No-
thing was said to any one of her parentage ; all that was
told to Mrs Cuthbert or the other servants, being, that she
had, after having come to Mrs Monilaws to be engaged,
been seized with a fever, which prevented her sooner from
entering upon her service. This caution had been observed
in accordance with Jeanie's own wish ; but her curious
history reached the ears of one of the servants, and very
soon became known to the family, who did not treat her
any better, because she was reputed to be the daughter of
one already notorious in that part of the country for
squalid beggary and extraordinary and mysterious conduct.
Mrs Cuthbert, an unfeeling woman, whose contempt was
measured by the humbleness of the birth, circumstances,
and education of every one around her, treated her harshly—-
not hesitating, in her moods of spleen and passion, to taunt
her with her father's abject poverty, and her own origin.
The protection and kindness she received from Carey, were
limited by his want of opportunity and power ; but the
early interest he felt in her soon assumed a new character,
and an affection, pure and honourable as the heart that
entertained it, took possession of him, with all the energy
of a youthful passion. The opportunities he had of con-
versing with her, were stolen from the watchful surveillance
of his parents ; who, acquainted with his habits of humble
companionship, had threatened to turn him from the house
if he did not renounce them ; but, as the mountains, piled

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

383

by the daring hand of Titan, are not able to stop the moun-
tain stream, many devices were fallen upon by Carey, to
give vent to a passion whose course, though proverbially
crooked, is also proverbially irresistible. When Jeanie was
supposed to be visiting her friends in Newabbey — a place
she dared not enter — she was along with Carey, in the
Wolf's Brake, a very retired place in the neighbourhood,
where they conceived they were perfectly safe from the
disturbance of their enemies ; but they were discovered by
Carey's parents, who cruelly dismissed them both from the
house. Carey was true to his love; and they proceeded
together to the village, where they were received by John
Monilaws and his wife, to whom they related their
strange story, with kindness. Some time afterwards, they
were married, and Carey paid little attention to the remarks
of the neighbours, who could not see " hoo the young
gentleman, without a trade in his hand," was to support him-
self and a wife. Even John Monilaws thought the match, in
the meantime, imprudent, and recommended that it should
be postponed until Carey had learned some trade or pro-
fession. Carey smiled in reply, and thought of what he had
seen from the sky-light of his father-in-law's cottage.

In a short time it was currently reported, that the laird
of Cubbertscroft was over head and ears in debt, and that
the property was to be brought to the hammer. This news
was soon but too well corroborated by large printed bills,
posted in various parts of the county, advertising the sale
of the property of Cubbertscroft, in the town-hall of Dum-
fries, on a day and hour set forth. One of these fell into
the hands of Carey. He sallied out of the house ; and,
it being at the time dark, he sought, and forcibly entered
the dark and dismal habitation of Cubby Grindstane, now
his father-in-law.

" Ken ye the law against hamesucken, sir ?" said Cubby,
recognising him.

" I do," said Carey ; " but it is a subtle point wi' the
lawyers hoo strong a rap (intended to let folk hear ye, but
haein the by effect o' openin the door) amounts to forcible
entry. I cam to ask hoo ye are, Cubby Grindstane."

" A' sort o' impudence," said Cubby, " is comprehended
by that cant. If folk want to borrow frae ye. (whilk, God be
praised i I'm far ayont,) if they want to steal yer time, if
they want to see what's i' yer boose, or what's intended to
be in yer stamach, they aye cloak their intentions wi' askin
hoo ye are — the maist unmeanin o' a' questions. Gang yer
ways the way ye cam, sir; an' I'll send ye a weekly bulletin
o' my health."

" Bulletins hae been issued aboot the health o' folk o'
less consequence," said Carey, pointing his finger to the
small garret.

" What mean ye, sir ?" said Cubby, staring at him with his
eyes at their full stretch, and shewing signs of great agitation

" Sit down, Cubby," said Carey — " I want to speak to ye,
for a short time, rationally an' quietly. I hae nae ill in-
tentions towards ye ; an', if ye're discreet, ye'll find me a
mair sicker freen than a safe fae."

Cubby hesitated to sit down. He had never been seen
in that position when any one was in his house ; for he
found he got any people who had been lucky enough to get
in, out again, more readily by keeping on his legs.

" I'm no used sittin wi' strangers," said he.

Carey again lifted his finger to the roof of the house, and
Cubby's agitation increased. Trembling from head to foot,
he at last sat down on a three-footed stool, opposite to
Carey.

" Hae ye heard ony news o' late ?" began Carey.

" I'm no i' the way o' hearin news," replied Cubby, " an'
care little for the warld's clavers besides."

" But when things concern oorsels," said Carey, " we
maun care aboot them. "

" What mean ye ?" said Cubby.

11 It's said," replied Carey, looking at him attentively,

' that in a hoose no a hunder miles frae the sma' village o

Vewabbey, there lie the banes o' a woman an' a bairn,

whase coffins never saw the mortclaith o' ony parish, or

illed the graves o' ony buryin place. When deaths are

concealed, suspicions o' murder are aye rife ; an' I hae heard

t even said that simple concealment itsel, at least in ae

:ase, is a guid, if no the only proof o' wilfu slaughter."

" What hae I to do wi' that, sir ?" said Cubby, whose agi-
tation still increased."

" Silence !" said Carey, holding up his hand to the roof —

{ ye may at least hear the gossip o' the village. The banes

are in the hoose o' an auld cobbler ; an' it's also said, that, in

the place whar they lie, there is an extraordinary collection

o' a miser's treasure, filling nae fewer than five big kists,

trongly clasped wi' bands o' iron, to protect the gowd

juineas, nae less in amount than fifteen thousand pounds.

To mak the story mair wonderfu', the gossips hae added to the

"nhabitants o' the strange hoose, a grey owl — nae doot, an

nvention o' their ain brains."

" It's a' an invention thegither," ejaculated Cubby, rising
'rom his seat, and trying to walk through the apartment,
which, however, his trembling and agitation prevented him
:rom doing, otherwise than by a zig zag motion, from one side
to another.

" I think sae mysel," said Carey ; " but we'll see." And
ie rose and seized, in an instant, a ladder used by Cubby, for
the purpose of mounting to his Golgotha.

" Hauld, sir !" cried the frantic Cubby, as he flew and
seized Carey by the legs, falling at the same time on hig
knees, and turning up his grey eyes, now, like his own owl's
darting forth fire. " What is this ye're aboot ? Wha are ye ?
What ken ye o' thae dark things ? — I mean there is naething
there. Hauld, sir ! or ye'll kill an auld man wha micht be
yer faither." And he fell on the floor, groaning and rolling
about, like one in a convulsion.

'f I will lay down this ladder," said Carey, " if you will
rise, an' sit down, an' speak to me on certain subjects that
concern me an' you."

"I will, I will," replied Cubby, recovering slightly
" I'll sit quietly an' hear ye speak o' onything but tbae
village gossips. Nae lamb will be mair peaceable ; an' —
an' ye'll hae something too — to tak wi' ye when ye gae awa."

"Ye mean ane o' yer three guid farthins, I suppose?"
said Carey, with a smile.

' Ay, I'll mak it a gowd guinea," said the other, with an
effort like to choke him.

" Weel, let that alane," said Carey ; " we'll maybe mak
it mair. Ye now see that I ken a' the secret that lies i'
that garret. I hae seen it wi' my ain een, an' heard it frae
yer dochter, wha is noo my lawfu married wife — a guid
match to her, seein I am the third son o' William Cuthbert
o' Cubbertscroft."

" My dochter married to ane o' the Cubberts o' Cubberts-
croft !" ejaculated Cubby. "Then hae the twa stocks at
last joined. Heaven be praised !"

" It is clear, then," continued Carey, " that you are com-
pletely in my power. On going to Gilbert Sleuthie, the
fiscal o' the county, an' layin my statement afore him, his
first step will be to seize the banes an' the gowd. Ye will
be tried for the murder o' the unhappy beings whase bodies
they ance supported ; an', whether ye be guilty or innocent,
ye'll hae some difficulty o' gettin oot o' the hands o' the law
the fifteen thousand guineas I saw ye count wi' my ain een ;
an', even were ye to get it back, it will spread throughout
the country that Cubby Grindstane has £ 15,000, an' a' the
stouthrievers o the country will be on ye like bluid-hounds,
to ease ye o' the burden o' keepin't."

" But ye'll no gang to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal ?" cried
Cubby rising again into one of his paroxysms of terror, and
seizing Carey by the knees. " It's no in. the heart o' ane

384.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

wi' that face o' yours to ruin a puir auld man wha you say
is your faither-in-law. I ken ye winna do't. The guinea
I'll mak twa, an' maybe a half mair. Say ye winna gang,
an' I'll mak it three. Mercy ! mercy !"

With the greatest difficulty Carey got him to let go the
firm grasp he had of his legs ; and which he seemed in-
clined to hold till he got his request granted.

" It isna by ony sic bribes as thae, Cuthbert Grandison,
that I will be diverted frae my purpose."

" What will please ye, then ?" cried Cubby, earnestly.

" A condition for yer ain benefit/' replied Carey. "Have
ye no sense enough to see that the money ye hoard in
thae kists yields ye nae interest, and, besides, rins the risk
9' bein taen frae ye the very moment it's kenned (an' it's
already suspected) ye hae't."

A groan was all the answer Cubby could give ; for deny-
ing the money was now out of the question.

" Now I am to put you on a plan," continued Carey,
" wharby ye may get a guid return for yer money, an' nae
man can tak it frae ye."

Another groan evinced the agony of the sufferer.

" Here," continued Carey, taking from his pocket the
advertisement of Cubbertscroft. " Here is my father's pro-
perty for sale on Wednesday next. It will, in all likeli-
hood, be thrown awa. Tak yer siller to the bank o' Dum-
fries, an' lodge it there, then gang to the Hall, an' buy
Cubbertscroft ; an' wha will venture to rin awa wi' that frae
ye ?"

" But ye are wrang aboot the siller/' cried Cubby —
" there's no sae muckle o't as ye say."

" I will count it mysel," cried Carey, pointing to the
ladder. " I heard you count it before."

" Weel, weel," replied Cubby, " I'll think o' what ye've
said."

" I'll wait yer answer the morn," said Carey. " If ye
dinna agree, I write instantly to Sleuthie."

Carey then left him ; but, with the determination of
watching the house during the night, to prevent any attempt
at removing the chests.

" Mercy on me !" said Cubby to himself, when Carey went
out, " what am I to do ? I canna remove thae kists, an'
whar can I tak them. My secret's oot ; an', whether that
callant tells Sleuthie or no, it's clear I canna keep langer
this siller in a thatched cottage. Let me see — buy Cubberts-
croft, the property o' the freens o' my mither, whase name
I bear ? Aften hae I heard her say, puir cratur ! that she
couldna live an' see Cubbertscroft sauld and gien awa to
strangers; and noo that is aboot to be — at a time, too, when,
strange to say ! my dochter is married to a Cubbert — the
callant's no far wrang. The banes o' my wife an' bairn,
wham I couldna find in my heart to bury, hae kept my
gowd lang safe frae the ee o' my dochter ; but they may
noo lead Sleuthie to my coffers. What's to be done ? My
gowd ! my gowd ! I canna pairt we ye ; for ye are dearer to
me than my heart's blude, But, if it wad pain me to gie ye
awa for land whilk has nae king's face on't, what wad I feel
to hae ye taen frae me by force ! I canna bear that thought.
Buy Cubbertscroft ! Cubby Grindstane gie awa his gowd
for Cubbertscroft ! — awfu thought ! But it was my mither's
wish — an' better land than naething. I maun think mair
on't."

Carey called next day, and again laid before the old man
the danger of not complying with his request. Cubby him-
self had been shaken fearfully during the night with the
terror of losing altogether his wealth ; and the arguments of
Carey almost decided him. He said he would consider again
of it, and if he came to the conclusion of buying Cubbertscroft,
he would be at the place of sale on the' day and hour ap-
pointed. Carey left him, and continued his watch at night.
About twelve o'clock he observed a cart and a horse standing
at the door of the cottage ; and when all the inhabitants of

the village were at rest, he observed the miser carrying out
his coffers and placing them on the cart. He allowed him
to proceed. The cart was loaded ; and, in a short time, he saw
it take the road to Dumfries. He followed close behind, and
was surprised to find that Cubby drove straight up to the
house of the cashier of the principal bank of the town. By
knocking hard, he roused the servants ; in a little time the
banker came out, the cart was unloaded, and a transaction
finished.

The day arrived on which the sale of Cubbertscroft was
to take place. A great number of people was collected.
Carey was there, and he was surprised to find his father ;
who, however, had attended with the hope of getting some
friend to buy in the property on his account. The two
looked at each other without speaking. John Monilaws
was also present, as well as some others of the inhabitants
ofNewabbeyi The auctioneer mounted into his desk ; and
£12,000 had been offered for the property by a neighbouring
laird, who wished to incorporate it with his own land.
Some other individuals bade, and the bodes had arrived at
£14,000 — no one being inclined to go beyond it. At this
moment the door of the room opened, with a harsh noise,
and the people looked around, to observe the cause of the
interruption. Cubby Grindstane entered. A feeling of
surprise ran through the crowd. John Monilaws stared,
and Carey smiled. • Stepping forward, Cubby Avatched the
voice of the auctioneer. The latter called out £14,000.

" Five shillings mair !" cried Cubby.

" You must make it five pounds, sir," said the auctioneer.

"Aweel, aweel, then," said Cubby — "let it be five
pounds."

The surprise of the people increased to wonder. Every
one whispered to his neighbour — " Is he mad ? Why
does the auctioneer take his bode ?" No one bade higher,
and the hammer fell.

" Are you able to find caution, sir ?" said the auctioneer.

" No," replied Cubby.

"Why did you bid for the land, then ?" rejoined the
other.

" Because I wanted it," replied Cubby. " Will ye no
tak the siller in place o' caution."

" Assuredly," replied the auctioneer, smiling — " where
is it?"

"There, said Cubby, "is the banker's check for £14,000.
The moment I get a complete right to the land, ye may hae
the siller."

The bargain was, accordingly, soon arranged and, to the
surprise of all that part of the country, Cuthbert Grandison
became the laird of Cubbertscroft. His feelings subse-
quently underwent some change for the better, and he took
home his daughter Jeanie and her husband, to live with him
in the mansion-house, where, however, he still exhibited a
great portion of his original avarice. He soon died, and
the property was left to Jeanie. Carey Cuthbert had, by the
right of courtesy, all the power of the property. He received
with welcome his father and mother, and maintained them
during their lives in the mansion-house from which they
had formerly expelled him, and from which their own ex«
travagance had driven themselves.

WILSON'S

tcal, 2Fvam'tt'onarg, anti Emas

ALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE CONTRAST OF WIVES.

IN the absence of that finely-adjusted balance of power
which ought to be found in the state of marriage, it becomes
a nice question, whether less evil results from an over-
stretched domination on the part of the husband, or from
his due submission or subjugation to an authority exercised
by her, and carried farther than is generally deemed con-
sistent with the delicacy of her sex, or the situation in which
she is placed. Connected with this question is that which
comprises the comparative evil arising from a superabund-
ance or deficiency of the intellectual powers of the wife.
We are too well aware of the uselessness, as well as the
impracticability, of solving such speculative questions, to say
a single word on. either side of the vexed argument to which
they have given rise ; but we will be within our province,
and probably not beyond the wishes of our readers, if we
lay before them a case of real life, involving a solution of
the question in one exemplary instance, where the " grey
mare" is not only found to be the f' better horse," but
where, by her powers of judicious leading, she saves not
only herself but her partner from the dangers of a rough
road and a precipitous course. In those good days of old
Scotland, when the corporation hall formed the theatre
wherein was enacted the great play (comedy, if you please)
of " Burgh Ambition," the influence of petticoat power
extended its secret workings behind the green curtain, and
often regulated all the actions of the performers in a manner
which was not only totally concealed from the spectators,
but even from the moving puppets themselves. In one in-
stance— that to which we have referred — this secret authority
transpired, and in a manner so ludicrous that it deserves to
be recorded. The Incorporation of Dyers and Scourers of
Perth (at the time of which we speak a considerable frater-
nity) had a deacon and boxmaster ; the former named
Murdoch Waldie, and the latter Andrew Todd. Their names
still figure in the old books of the corporation, if these are
not gone astray ; and there is, or was, an entry in these same
books, connected with the reign of the two worthies, which,
illustrative and probative as it is of our story, we shalhhave
occasion to lay before our readers. Well — to proceed in his-
torical order — the worthy boxmaster had been married for a
number of years. He migb,' be about fifty years of age, was
of small stature, very bland and affable in his manners, of an
easy disposition, but, withal, as ambitious of fame as any
of the aspirants for office in his corporation. Endowed by
nature with very inadequate powers of judgment, he expe-
rienced no want of the powers of speech, which was as
fluent as a shallow mind could make it; and he had, besides,
a species of humour about him, which owed its existence
rather to the simplicity and bonhommie of his nature, than
to the more ordinary source of a perception of the ludicrous.
As almost every want is remedied by some equipollent sur-
rogation which strangely often supplies its place, Andrew
Todd was sensible of his want of mental powers ; and thus
he exhibited that sense of a want of sense, which is often
more valuable than sense itself, in so far as the modesty
with Avhich it is accompanied leads the individual to seek
the assistance of good advisers, by which he sometimes sur-
153. VOL. III.

passes, in the race of life, conceited wiseacres. We do not
say that he married Mrs Jean Todd merely because he saw
she was endowed with greater powers than himself; but it
is certain, that, after he came to appreciate the extent of
her understanding, he had the prudence to take every ad-
vantage of her excellent sense and judgment, as well in the
private affairs of his business, as in the public concerns
of the corporation treasure rship, with which he came, by hei
means, to be invested. This was not only advantageous to
his pecuniary interests, but congenial to his feelings, as —
getting quit, in this way, of the trouble of thinking, a most
laborious operation to him, and generally very ill executed,
if not altogether bungled — he was left at liberty to indulge
his speech and humour ; two powers which had nothing
more to do with judgment or even common sense, than
with the sublimated spirit of genius itself.

His wife, Mrs Jean, was, as partly hinted, the very oppo-
site of her husband. She was a large, stout, gaucy woman,
at least twice as big as her mate. She had been, early in
life, considerably pitted with the small-pox, enough of the
traces of which were still left to give her that sturdy, hardy
aspect they generally impart ; while a strong and somewhat
rough voice, agreeing well with her other attributes, gave her
ideas and sentiments an apparent breadth and weight, which,
added to their own sterling qualities, could not fail to pro-
duce a considerable effect even on men of strong minds, and
to give her a decided advantage over her sex. Her original
powers of mind were strengthened by reading — an occupa-
tion in which, as it required silence, her husband very seldom
engaged; and, what few women are able to accomplish, she
never allowed this favourite habit to interfere with the
regulation of her domestic economy, or of the actions of her
husband. Bold and masculine, however, as she was, she
was a kind-hearted woman ; and, having no family to her
husband, she was a warm friend, a ready adviser to all her
female acquaintances, and a charitable giver to those who,
after a strict and very stern investigation, she thought-
worthy of her assistance.

The deacon of the incorporation again, Murdoch Waldie,
was a man of a very different cast from the boxmaster. He
was a person of considerable parts ; but his conceit, which
led him to conceive himself cleverer than nature had made
him, produced often all the consequences which result from
a deficiency of mental parts. Proud and domineering, he
loved to rule his corporation with dignity and authority ;
while his love of official show and domestic parade rendered
him extravagant and made him poor, notwithstanding of
a good trade, which he carried on with great success. In
his choice of a wife, there might have been perceived the
tendency of his peculiar disposition ; for he married a beauty
who qualified his love of authority by an affected softness
gentleness, and meekness, and his self-conceit, by shewing
herself inferior to him in understanding, as indeed she was.
though she excelled him in another quality, which more
than supplied its place. What with his business, his deacon-
ship, his chain, his gold-headed cane, and his fair wife, dressed
in the gaudy colours of his own dying, Deacon Waldie was
an important personage in those times, when to be high in
a corporation was to be in the enjoyment of the truest ele-
vation to which human nature, in this vrorld, could aspire.

386

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Vain, showy, gaudy, and frivolous, Mrs Deacon Waldie
held the same position to Mrs Todd that the boxmastei
did to her husband. She had no sense or power to rule
her husband, who, indeed, would not have submitted to
female authority; but she had what Mrs Todd wanted,
and what served her purpose equally well, and that was
cunning — the signal quality of small, weak minds, and the
very curse of the whole race of man and woman. This insidi-
ous power enabled her to detect her husband's failings, as well
as to profit by them — and hence her affectation of total sub-
jugation to his high will and authority, and her tame system
of according and assenting to everything he said or did,
whether right or wrong. But in all this, her selfish cun-
ning had a part ; because, while she pretended to love him,
and dote on him, and prize him beyond all mortals, her adu-
lation, her blandishments, and submission were accompa-
nied or followed always by petitions. She contrived to have
hardihood enough to make the most unreasonable requests,
and to shew that she was too sensitive, too fragile, and too
weak, to bear a refusal. If her suit was rejected, she flung
herself upon the haughty deacon's bosom, and sobbed ; and
what deacon could withstand the appeal of beauty in tears ?
The sight was the very personification of the triumph of his
pride and dignity. The chain of his official authority, and
the arms of a praying, supplicating, weeping wife, hanging
at the same time around his proud neck, were the very
counterparts of each other. His love of subjugation bent, as
it often does, his own head ; and cunning enjoyed its greatest
triumph in overcoming one, by turning his own weapons
against himself.

The contrast which we have thus exhibited between these
two couples, is that of real every-day life. The characters
of too many married parties partake, more or less, of the
qualities possessed by those we have now mentioned ; but
how strangely do apparent contrasts often meet in grotesque
resemblances ? Mrs Todd ruled her husband, and he
knew it ; but Mrs "Waldie ruled her husband, and he was
ignorant of it : while the one followed her occupation for her
own and her husband's good, and the other was bent (un-
consciously, it may be) on her own and her husband's ruin.

These two couples were on the most intimate terms — the
circumstance of the two husbands being office-bearers of
the same corporation having increased an intimacy which
had been of considerable duration. But there was little
respect felt for her showy friends on the part of the wife of
the minor official, who probably saw that their extravagance
was fast driving them to ruin. This foresight was soon
verified. The demands of Mrs Deacon Waldie were not
limited to her own wants and wishes — they were extended
to those of her friends. Her father, trusting to the reputation
of her husband's deaconship, had occasion for his security to
the extent of £200 ; and she was fixed upon as the instru-
ment to wring, by her usual artifice, out of her proud lord
and master, not only his own name to the bond, but also
that of some of his friends, to be procured through his
means and intercession. She had, for a considerable time,
been occupied zealously in endeavouring to accomplish her
object — bringing into full contrast her husband's proud
domination, and her innocent and iateresting weakness and
timidity, and shewing, as she hung round his neck, her help-
lessness and insignificance, at the very moment when she was
exercising more power than ever was arrogated by the box-
master's wife in all her female tyranny. She succeeded in
her scheme, and Waldie consented — but only as a king grants
the prayer of a petition — not only to give his own name to
the bill, but to endeavour to get that of Mr Andrew Todd.
Tears of thankfulness, and a full acknowledgment of his
great power over her, was the reward offered and granted
for this great condescension and unparalleled favour. But it
was more easy for Mrs TV aldie to ask and give thanks and
tears, and for her husband to vouchsafe his own name as

cautioner, than for him to get out of the clutches of Mr.
Jean Todd the consent of her husband. The deacon knew
how his brother-official was ruled by his wife, and lustily
despised the white-livered caitiff for his pusillanimity.

" I canna promise, Mrs Deacon Waldie," said he to his
wife, according to the fashion of address that suited his
dignity — " I canna promise to get the boxmaster to gie his
name to yer faither's bond. He's sae completely, puir
cratur ! under the power an' direction o' a woman, that he
daurna tak sae muckle liberty wi' his ain. The woman
brocht him naething when he married her, but the iron
rod o' authority by which she rules him ; and yet, strange
to say, he seems to like her the better for a' the stern
dominion she exercises owre him."

" That's a fault, I'm sure, ye canna charge me wi'." re-
plied his wife.

" No, Margaret," said the deacon — <f you dare not pre-
sume to dictate to me ; and, to do you justice, you never
attempted it ; but I began ye fair. I shewed you at first
the proper conduct o' a husband towards his wife — firm
but kind ; and the duty o' a wife towards a husband —
obedient and loving ; and it was weel that you had the
sense to understand me, and the good nature to comply wi
my wishes ; for, if I had seen the least glimpse o' an inclin-
ation to rule me or force me into yer measures, there
wad sune hae been rebellion in the hoose o' Deacon Waldie.
The consequences o' a wife's domination are weel exem-
plified in the case o' that contemptible man whase assist-
ance we now require. He daurna assist a freend. His
wife is cash-keeper, conscience-keeper, housekeeper, and,
by and by, she may be boxkeeper, to the entire disgrace o'
oor trade, wha, though they live by women, (for men never
employ dyers,) wouldna relish to acknowledge the authority
o' a female boxmaster. When a man resigns himsel to the
authority o' a wife, he is dune for a' guid to himsel as weel
as his neebors."

" Ye canna, my dear Murdoch," said the soft wife,
f< look upon a tame husband, wha submits to the rule o' a
wife, wi' mair contempt and ill favour than I do upon the
virago wha presumes to reverse the order o' nature, and
wrest the authority frae the lord o' the creation."

" You gie a fine turn to the sentiment, Margaret," re-
plied the gratified deacon. " I am anxious (but it is my
ain free will) to do yer faither this service ; and I will
try, for ance, if I canna fecht Mrs Jean Todd wi' her ain
weapons. The boxmaster's no dead to shame ; and surely,
if there's ony power on earth whereby the blush can be
brought to the face o' man, it's the power o' being in a
condition to tell him to that very face he is hen-pecked.
The very word has a spur and a neb in't to rouse him to the
vindication o' the rights o' man. I was aye afraid o'tj
and, God be thanked ! I hae escaped even the very chance o'
its application to me."

" You forgot, my love, that you hae also me to thank for
that happiness," said the wife.

' c No — it is mysel, it is mysel," cried the proud lord of
bis own household. " It lies in my native sense o' the rights
o' our superior sex, and my firmness o' purpose in keeping
the reins tight upon ye. You hae only the merit o' no
rebellin ; but even your rebellion I would hae sune laid."

" I fancy, then," said Mrs Waldie, gently, " it wiL be
your intention and pleasure to see the boxmaster imme-
diately."

" No, Mrs Waldie," replied the deacon, a little touched;
( not immediately, but by and by."

The deacon, however, did almost immediately wait upon
the boxmaster, and got him to adjourn to a tavern in the
Lawnmarket, at that time much frequented by the members
of the incorporation. They had scarcely seated themselves
when the superior official opened his subject.

'•' I affix a frank man, Mr Todd," began he, " and I winna

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

hesitate to tell ye, at ance, that I want a favour frao ye.
Will ye join me in security for my father-in-law to the
extent o' twa hunder pounds ?"

The hoxmaster paused, and thought of the stern cham-
berlain at home. He was inclined to assist his deacon, who
was a person of great importance in his eyes ; but he saw
the danger which might result from his going out of his
province, and acting upon what he conceived to be right.
His pause was at once understood by the deacon, whose
keenness to make a dash at the supposed obstacle to his
suit, arose from his contempt of his friend's pusillanimous
conduct, and his desire to attain the object of his request.

" I can read your thoughts, Mr Todd," said he, as the
boxmaster still paused and seemed irresolute and confused.
" You wish to serve, but you daurna. Mrs Todd winna let
ye jDllow the counsel o' yer own heart. This is a deli-
cate subject ; but I am your friend, and would wish to
redeem ye frae the slavery o' a woman's (and otherwise, I
grant, a guid and a sensible woman's) domination in matters
wherein she has nae legitimate authority."

He waited the effect of this speech, Avhich was a kind of
touchstone.

" I see nae delicacy in a subject," replied the boxmaster,
" whar there's nae secrecy. Hoo does it come to be known
that my wife is my counsellor and adviser ? Because I mak
nae secret o' what I hae nae reason to be ashamed o'. I
dinna ken hoo you feel, Mr Waldie, but I think it's the
pleasantest thing on earth to be, as it were, compelled to alloo
yersel to be taen care o', an' defended, an' nursed, an'
petted, an' ruled, by a guid wife. In my opinion, to be
loved by a wife is only the half o' oor richt. Ony woman
may love a man — it's a woman's trade to love ; but when you
see a dear cratur takin the pains an' trouble o' governin a'
yer actions — ay and as it were, even yer very thoughts —
lookin wi' a keen and carefu ee after yer maist minute
affairs, regulatin yer conduct, keepin yer siller, directin
yer financial, domestic, personal, private, and public oper-
ations ; an', in short, thinkin for ye — hoo is it possible for a
man to see sae muckle care ta'en wi' him and his concerns
without bein filled wi' gratitude and affection to her wha
labours sae officiously for his guid ?"

" Mr Andrew Todd," said the deacon, impatiently, " you
are describin ane o' the maist pitifu' an' contemptible spirits
that ever warmed the scaly body o' a reptile that has nae
sting. What man wi' a spark o' independence in his breast
would think o' resignin his judgment into the hands o' a
woman ? They are guid craturs in their ain place, an' baith
interestin an' usefu when they are occupied in conductin
the affairs o' their houses, obeyin the commands o' their
husbands, an' ministerin to his slichtest wishes, as if every
look were an act o' parliament ; but, to stoop to mak a
Woman a counsellor, to gie her a vote in the great council
o' the noble thoughts o' man's divine mind ! Unheard o'
humiliation ! Why, man, a woman is only the twenty-fourth
part o' a man, seein we hae, as the doctors say, twenty -four
ribs ; an' we hae the authority o' Scripture for sayin that, at
the very best, she is only a help to man. She was, besides,
the beginnin o' a' evil. An' yet this fractional thing, this help,
this unlucky author o' the waes o' mortals, ye dignify an'
raise up into the very place an' power o' yer inheritance frae
Adam ; reversin the order o' nature, degradin our noble
sex, an' makin laughin- stocks o' a' married men."

" I'm no sure if there's muckle practical truth in a' this,
deacon," said Andrew, smiling good-naturedly. " Suppose,
for an instant, that, besides the satisfaction and pleasure I
derive frae nestlin safely in the arms o' my wife's judg-
ment, and courin aneath her protectin wing — whilk gies me,
sometimes, a flap I like as weel as her kindest embrace — I
hae discovered that her thoughts and reflections are a thou-
sand times better than the boxmaster's — what sae ye to
that, deacon ? I hae seen an oaken tree twenty-four time

;ger than its parent, an' yet a it ever had to thank the
auld stock for was an acorn. Sae, in place o' only bein a
twenty-fourth part, as you say, o' man, I am satisfied I hae
scarcely a twenty-fourth part o' my wife's mind ; and will
onybody tell me. that a wise counsellor should be rejected,
because she happens to be dressed in petticoats ?"

" Yes, Mr Todd, I will tell you that," replied the deacon.
" The private sodger has dootless often a mind superior to
the general's ; but he maun still keep the ranks. Mind is
naething in this affair — station is everything. Look at Mrs
Margaret Waldie — a cleverer cratur doesna exist — that is,
in her ain way ; but did she ever dare to counsel me ?
Did she ever presume to sway, or alter, in the slightest
degree, the decrees o' my judgment ? Na ; she has owre
muckle respect for the status and respectability o' her lord
and maister. Rouse yersel, Andrew ; tak example by me,
man ; act as your kind heart prompts in this friendly
affair ; and join me in the bond, whereby you'll incur nae
danger."

" I am anxious to oblige ye, deacon," said Andrew ; " but 1
scarcely think it wad be a gratefu part in me to repay a' Mrs
Jean Todd's care o' me for twenty years, by actin, in this
affair, upon my ain individual and responsible judgment. I
might anger her, and she might withdraw frae me her coun-
tenance and protection : I might as weel lose the licht o' the
sun. Ye dinna understand me, deacon ; ye are made to
command — I to obey. Pressure brings out the power o' the
spring, and a' my happiness in life is produced and brought
oot by the weight o' the judgment and authority o' Mrs
Jean Todd. Her very mind seems to hae passed into
mine ; and I feel, when I'm thinkin her thoughts, a satis-
faction I never feel when my ain are passin, like unbidden
ghaists, through my mind. But surely I hae some excuse :
is she no a noble cratur ? How she maks a body shake wi'
the sound o' her voice, and the solidity o' her thoughts ! and
hoo beautifully she softens doun the impression o' her autho-
rity, by restorin, wi' a half-severe, half-kind sort o' a smile,
peculiar to hersel, the confidence she frightened awa by the
mere force o' her superior intellect !"

" How beautifully, in short, Andrew," said the deacon,
' ' are you hen-pecked ! — that is the rery soul and marrow o'
a' ye hae uttered."

" Ay ; and I glory to be pecked by such a hen .'" cried
Andrew, with sparkling eyes, and a real and unsophisti-
cated appearance of triumph.

The deacon, notwithstanding of his anxiety to get the
bond signed, laughed outright at this tremendous sally of
the boxmaster's enthusiasm of servitude ; but it was a laugh
of derision, and he forgot that he was himself daily losing
more feathers, by a silent process of peculation going on
under his wing, than were taken from Andrew by the con-
servative operation of his wife's billing and cooing.

" Then I suppose you will not refuse my request," sail,
the deacon, " seein you glory in the hen-peckin it may pro-
duce. Seriously, will you comply wi' my request ?"

" Seriously, deacon, I am inclined to oblige ye," replied
Andrew, " if I could get Mrs Jean to agree to it. I'll try
her this very nicht. I can say nae mair."

The deacon could make no more of him. He went
home and reported the result of the negociation to his wife,
who despaired of success ; but overpowered her husband
with thanks for what he had done. She had a secret wish
that he should do more — viz., call upon Mrs Jean Todd
herself, and solicit hev The difficulty of accomplishing
this was to herself apparent ; but she was determined to
carry her point in some way or another ; so she straight-
way began to weep bitterly," crying that her father would
be ruined ; but never hinting any remedy for her distress.
This paroxysm of affected grief produced its usual effect
upon the proud husband; who, hard as a rock when
attempted to be dictated to, was as weak as a child when

388

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

attacked with tears, and an apparent helpless subjugation
to his high will. He took the weeping wife m hw arms,
and asked her what more he could do to assist her father
in this emergency.

"There's only ae way," said she, wiping her eyes.
'< There's just ae remedy for our case."

" What is it, my love ?" said the deacon.

" I canna mention t," said the cunning wife. " It's
against a' the high and proud feelins o' yer noble na-
ture." „

" But we are sometimes obliged to sacrifice our feelins,
said the gratified deacon. " Speak, my dear Margaret ;
ye ken wha ye're speakin to. What is yer remedy ?"

" It's to ca' upon Mrs Jean Todd yersel," said she,
holding away her head, while another burst of tears overtook
her voluntarily.

The deacon started back in amazement. The request
was against all the feelings of his nature. The proud stick-
ler for marital rule was in an extraordinary position : first,
his wife was governing him at that moment, unknown to
himself; and, secondly, he was requested to sue, at the
feet of a woman, for liberty to her husband to act as he
chose.

"Margaret," said the deacon, "you, I'm sure, dinna ask
me to overturn, at ae blow, a' the principles o' my life, con-
versation, and conduct?"

" Na, Murdoch," said she, throwing her arms round his
neck, and weeping again — " na, na ; / dinna ask ye."

" But ye maybe wish it, my dear Peggy," replied he,
whimpering. " Necessity is a great power : maybe ye feel
compelled to wish it."

" Maybe I do," said the wife, with another burst.

" Weel, Peggy, dry up yer tears, my love," said the con-
quered lord ; " I'll awa to Mrs Jean Todd."

And he was as good as his word, Away he went, to re-
cognise that authority in a wife which he so heartily de-
spised, and to which he was himself, at the very moment,
bowing his head. He took the bill with him, with the view
of taking advantage of a compliance upon the instant, as he
feared the effects of a night's reconsideration. He found
the couple in a curious position. They were sitting, one on
each side of the fire. Mrs Jean Todd had on her spectacles ;
but her book was lying on the table. Mr Todd was ap-
parently doing nothing ; but he was thinking more deeply,
and with more difficulty, than was his partner, who was
occupied doubtless in digesting what she had been reading.
Mr Todd was, in truth, at that very moment, in the very
act of endeavouring to call up courage to tell his wife the
import of the deacon's request, and to make some attempt
at supporting his petition. A few words had passed previous
to the entry of the deacon.

" I had a lang sederunt wi' our worthy deacon the day,"
said Andrew. " He's no an ill body, the deacon. I canna
forget the trouble he took on roy appointment to the honour-
able office o' boxmaster."

" It was / that made ye boxmaster, Andrew," said Mrs
Jean Todd. " I commanded the suffrages o' the hail cor-
poration. Deacon Waldie couldna hae opposed me. I was
at the blind side o' the electors, through their wives ; and
what man could hae dared to compete wi' the electors'
wives when they were determined to vote for me ? The

deacon professes to laugh at our authority. Puir man ! he

forgets, or doesna see, that there's no a man in the hail cor-
poration wha is mair ruled, and mair dangerously ruled, by
his wife, than he is. She'll ruin him ; and that ye'll sune
see. Nae tradesman could stand her extravagance ; and, I
understand, she cunningly cont.ives to get him to assist her
friends, and to despise and disregard his ain. Hoo different
is my conduct ! Your friends, Andrew, I hae assisted •
and the only thing I ever left to your unassisted judgment'
was the benefiting o' mine."

This sensible speech had, as the sun does the fire, ex-
tinguished Andrew's mental cogitations, and put out hi»
courage. A silence had reigned for several minutes, when
Mr Deacon Waldie entered. Drawing in a. cliair, he com,
menced —

"The boxmaster would doubtless be tellip }*, madam," said
he, " that I wanted a sma' favour aff him. My wife's father
requires a bill for intromissions the noo to the extent of
twa bunder pounds, and the employers insist upon twa
securities. They micht hae been content wi' mysel ; but,
seein they hae refused my single name, I hae asked An-
drew to gie his, as a mere matter o' form, alang wi' my ain.
I dinna doot" (looking into Mrs Jean Todd's face, and
attempting to laugh) " that ye may hae some influence wi'
the boxmaster. He's quite against it," (looking to An-
drew, and winking — a device observed by the quick-eyed
dame,) " though there's nae danger; and I hae, therefore
come at ance to the fountain-head o' a' authority. Just say to
the boxmaster, that he ought sae far to oblige a freend ; aim
the bill, which I hae here in my hand, will be signed in an
instant."

This speech was understood in an instant by Mrs Jean
Todd. The manner of her husband previous to the entry
of the deacon — the deacon's visit so soon after the meeting,
his speech, his wink, and altogether — satisfied her that her
husband was inclined to sign the bill, and that they had laid
their heads together to accomplish their object by the
manoeuvre to which they had thus resorted. Her pride and
honesty made her despise these underhand and crooked
schemes; but her prudence prevented her from shewing
either her • penetration or her feelings. There was one
thing, however, which she was determined not to counte-
nance. She knew that Deacon Waldie despised, and, in-
deed, openly, and at all times, and often in her own pre-
sence, denounced the husband who allowed himself to be
dictated to by his wife ; and now he was in the very act of
proving that her husband was worthy of that denouncement,
and that she herself was the individual who, by exercising
authority over her husband, had degraded him, and ren-
dered him the subject of the deacon's scorn. This hurt her
beyond bearing ; but she was determined that she should
not recognise this imputed authority. At the same time, she
could not allow her husband to be ruined ; and the ques-
tion was, how she should act in these trying circumstances ?
Her quick mind was soon at work. For some time she con-
trived to prevent an awkward silence from sitting down
upon them and producing embarrassment ; and this she
accomplished by putting a few insignificant questions to the
deacon regarding his father-in-law, while she was deli-
berating with herself what she was to do, and how she was
to escape from the dilemma in which she was placed.

In the first place, she caught her husband's eye, through
which the charm of her authority could generally be very
easily sent. She endeavoured to retain his glance, and to
shew that she was decidedly opposed to this scheme, and
saw through all its bearings. Without altogether losing
this hold of Andrew, she directed a prudent and cautious
speech to the ears of the Deacon.

" I winna affect, Mr Deacon Waldie," said she, " notwith-
standing I hae often heard yer sentiments on the subject
o' the authority o' wives — I winna affect either to be
ignorant o' my husband's affairs, or to be careless o' what
concerns baith him and me. I will say further, that I dinna
hesitate to gie him a guid advice when I think he requires
it; for out o' many counsellors comes wisdom; and,as Solomon
says, ' every purpose is established by counsel.' Though
' a good wife,' says the same wise man, ' layeth her hands to
the spindle, and her hands holdeth the distaff,' her business
doesna finish there ; for he adds, that ' the heart of her
husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no
fear of spoil.' But there's a limit to a wife's interference.

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

389

You say my husband has already declared his opinion" —
(looking at Andrew) — " why then should I be asked to over-
turn the resolution o' his ain mind and judgment ? If my
advice had been asked in time, it would hae been given ; but
I canna think o' endeavourin to overrule my master, when
ance his mind is made up and his resolution fixed."

She rose as she finished this judicious speech, and left
the room, kindly bidding the deacon good night. Both the
men were surprised. The deacon was chagrined. The
boxmaster was left in great doubt and perplexity. Both had
great cause ; for the first was caught in his own snare, and
the latter had had thrown upon him a superabundance of
power and authority in forming his own judgments that he
never got awarded to him before. The deacon was deter-
mined not to lose his ground. The dame had left the matter
\n the hands of t/ie boxmasler. That was a great point
gained ; and he accordingly set about to convince Andrew
that he was left at liberty to do as he chose. But the worthy
boxmaster had very great doubts and scruples upon the
subject, and wished to follow Mrs Jean, to consult her in
private. To this again the deacon could not give his consent ;
but continued to pour into the ears of the irresolute box-
master all the arguments he could muster, to satisfy him
that the construction he had put upon Mrs Jean Todd's
speech was favourable to the exercise of his liberty, at least
in this case. The position was scarcely denied by Andrew ;
but he could not get out of his mind the expression of his
wife's eye. He had read in it a denial and a reproof. At the
same time, he could not reconcile it with her speech, which
was entirely different from anything of the kind he had ever
witnessed. Her opinions were always ready and decided ;
and he never saw her shrink from declaring a difference of
sentiment, when she entertained an opinion different from
his. Why then did she in this instance depart from her
ordinary course ? The question was difficult to answer.
It seemed that she did actually in a manner leave it to him-
self. The deacon seemed to be right in his construction ;
and his arguments were almost unanswerable.

" If," said he, " Mrs Jean Todd had been hostile to this
measure, would she not have declared it manfully, as is
her uniform practice in similar cases ?"

The boxmaster could not answer the question satisfactorily ;
and the deacon, continuing his arguments, persuasions, pro-
mises, and flatteries, at last got the victim to put his name
to the bill. Upon the instant the door opened, and Mrs
Jean Todd appeared before them. She went forward
to the table, and laid her hand upon the document.

"Is that your signature, sir?" said she, looking calmly
at her husband.

" Ou, ay — I believe, yes — I did put my name to that
paper," replied Andrew, in great agitation ; " but I thocht
ye left me to do as I chose when ye gaed oot. If ye didna
want me to sign it, ye shouldna hae left the room."

" A bill is no a bindin document," continued she, without
seeming to attend to what the boxmaster said, " until it be
delivered. It's no delivered sae lang as it is in my hands ;
an' never will be delivered by me sae lang as I recollect the
words o' the wise man o' the east, wha said — ' If thou be
surety for thy friend, thou art snared with the words of thy
mouth.' Yet this paper is no my property. The stamp is
yours, though my husband's name is still his." Turning to
the boxmaster, who was shaking and retaining his breath
with pure fear — " Do ye stand by this, sir," said she, in
a commanding voice, which increased his fear, " or do ye
repent o't?"

" I repent o't," replied Andrew, with dry lips, and £
gurgling of the throat, as if he had been on the eve of
choking.

" Then, I fancy," continued Mrs Jean Tod, " ye would
like yer name back again ?"

" Ou ay — surely," replied Andrew.

" Well, then," said she, as she with the greatest coolness
took up her scissors that hung by her side, and with affected
precision cut away his name ; " there it is" — handing it
to him. And turning to the deacon — •" The rest is yours, sir
— I hae nae richt to meddle wi' yer name — there's yer
paper" — returning to him the mutilated bill.

At this operation the deacon stared with a stupified
look of wonder and contempt. He had never before seen
so cool an example of female rule and marital weakness ;
and his pride, his selfishness, and his spite were all
roused and interested by the extraordinary sight. He was
too much affected for indulging in a vulgar expression
of feelings which could not adequately be expressed by
mere language. Taking up his hat, and casting upon
the boxmaster a look of sovereign contempt, and upon
Mrs Jean Todd one of anger, he bowed as low as a
deacon ought to do, and left the room. The circumstance
produced no very unpleasant consequences to either the
boxmaster or his wife. She, no doubt, reproved him for
his stupidity ; but the point of her wrath was turned away,
by the repentance and soft words of her husband, who pro-
mised never to do the like again. He had, besides, some
defence, arising out of her dubious conduct, which, though
quite easily understood, he could not well comprehend.
The naivete of his statement, that " she shouldna hae left
him unprotected," was quite enough to have mollified a
much sterner woman than Mrs Jean Todd, and during
that same night they were a far happier couple than Deacon
Waldie and his fair spouse.

When the Deacon went home, and reported the extra-
ordinary proceeding to his obedient wife, the grief it oc-
casioned was in some degree overcome, on the part of the
husband, by the favourable contrast it enabled him to form
between the boxmaster and his wife, and him and his obe-
dient spouse. Mrs Waldie did all in her power to aid the
operation ; but she did not forget the bill, which her father
was pressing hard to procure.

" Surely every man's no under the rule o' his wife," said
she, with a view to leading to another cautioner.

" No, God be thanked!" said the deacon — " there are some
independent men i' the world, besides mysel. Every hus-
band's no hen-pecked. Every man that has a wife doesna
' glory' in being ' pecked by such a hen.' "

" There's William M'Gillavry," said the sly wife, in a
soft and unassuming tone. "He is independent o' his
wife."

" Do ye mean, Peggy, that I should ask him to sign the
bill ?"

" Na," replied she, " I dinna say that ; I merely meant
that he was an independent man like you, wha, if ye asked
him to do it, wouldna refuse on such a ground as the want
o' consent o' his wife. Oh, what will my puir faither do f
I canna live if he is in sorrow and perplexity." (Weeping.)
" I saw William M'Gillavry yesterday. He asked kindly
for ye. Ye haena visited him for a lang time. T\va hus-
bands sae like each other, might meet oftener, and twa wives,
wha agree in the ae grand point o' submittin to the author-
ity o' their lords and masters, might, wi' advantage, be
greater gossips than we hae been."

" Might I try William, think ye, Margaret ?" said he.
" My puir advice canna be o' muckle avail to ye," said
she ; " ye ken best yersel ; but I think, if he were asked,
he wadna refuse the sma' favour."

" I see you wish me to try him, Peggy," said he — "and I
will try him."

Away hastened the deacon to William M'Gillavry. ^
found him at home, and, as a deacon, was well received.
Having opened the subject to him, he found that M'Gil-
lavry was not inclined to become cautioner, unless he got
put into his hands some security, that, in the event of
his being called upon to pay the money, he might, in the

390

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

end, be safe. This proposition was not expected by the
deacon, who did not possess any portable security that he
could give. He endeavoured to get his friend to be satis-
fied with his own obligation, to keep him scaithless against
all the effects of his obligation; but the other would not agree
to this, and, pretending to be called away by some one, left
the room for a little, promising to be back instantly. In the
meantime, the deacon heard a conflict of words in an ad-
joining apartment, in the course of which several half
sentences met his ear. The wordy war was between William
M'Gillavry and his wife. Her notes were shrill and high,
and repeatedly she said — " Get my brother John's bill frae
him" — " that will do" — " he, puir fallow ! canna pay't, at
ony rate, and I want to save him frae • the hands o' the
law." The deacon did not understand this broken con-
versation ; but he could easily pejrceive that his friend was
taking the advice of his wife. The words of old Fleming's
ballad of evil wives came into his mind : —

" An evil wyfe is the werst aught

That ony man can haif,
For he may never sit in saught

Onless he be hir sklaif."

As he muttered the last words, forgetful of his own case,
his friend entered.

" My wife's brither," said he, " has a bill in your corpor-
ation's box for £250. You can impledge that in my hands,
and I'll sign yer father-in-law's security."

"The corporation's property's no mine," answered the
deacon ; " I hae, besides, nae power owre't — the bill's i' the
box, an' Mr Andrew Tod has the key."

" I ken that," replied the other, (who was a dishonest
man,) with a knowing wink ; " but ye can easily get haud o'
the paper, an' I'll gie ye a back letter that I winna use't
unless I'm obliged to pay yer father-in-law's debt. Nae-
body will ever hear o't."

The proposition did not altogether please the deacon,
who, though very far from being an upright man, did not
care about his frailty being known to another. He said he
would think of what had passed between them, and came
away. His wife, when he came home, was waiting in the
greatest anxiety. Her father had called in the meantime,
and told her, that, if he did not get the bill immediately,
with two good names upon it, he would be put in jail.
This alarmed his daughter, who, if she could save her father,
cared little for the ruin of her husband. She heard with
deep anguish the announcement of another disappointment.
Having been weeping before he came in, her eyes were red
and swollen, and the bad intelligence again struck the
fountain of her tears, and made her weep and moan bitterly.
The deacon was moved at the picture of distress. He had
not told her William M'Gillavry's proposition, but only
simply that he had refused, unless adequate security were
put into his hands. His wife's grief wrung from him every
satisfaction he could bestow ; for he could not stand and
witness the sorrow of his tender and obedient partner, while
there remained any chance of ameliorating her anguish.

" There is ae way, Peggy, o' gettin this affair managed,"
said he, at last.

" What is that ?" said she, looking up, and throwing back
her curls, which, amidst all her grief, were never forgot.

" William M'Gillavry's wife's brother," said he, " is awin
our corporation £250 ; and his bill for that sum is in our
corporation box. He says he would sign the bill to your
father, if I gave him his brother-in-law's bill to hauld in
security ; but I'm no quite sure if that wad be honest.'

" Thae things lie far out o' a weak woman's way," said
she. ^ " We haena the power o' mind possessed by you men ;
but, if I were entitled to speak a word on the subject, I
would say there was nae dishonesty whar there was nae
wrang. Ye ken the signin o' my faither's bill's a mere form ;
and, if William M'Gillavry's brither-in-law'- bill were taen

out o' the box, it would just be put back again. Correct
me, my dear Murdoch, if ye think me wrang."

<f I dinna think ye're far wrang, Peggy," said the deacon ;
11 but hoo is William M'Gillavry's brither-in-law's bill to be
got out o' our corporation box ? There's the difficulty — and I
needna ask a woman how that's to be got owre."

" Na, Murdoch — ye needna ask me that question," replied
the wife. "It's far beyond the reach o' my puir brain; but, if
it's in the power o' ony mortal man to say how a difficulty o'
that kind's to be mastered, it is in that o' Murdoch Waldie.
Maybe ye may gie't a cast through yer powerfu mind. Oh !
if ye saw my distractit faither ! He left me just as you
cam in, wi* the tears o' sorrow rinnin doun his auld
cheeks. Will ye think o't, my dear Murdoch ?" (embracing
him.) " What's weel intended canna be wrang ; and what's
planned by a mind like yours canna fail."

" I couldna get the key frae Andrew Todd/' said the
gratified deacon, " unless I told him an untruth."

" A lee for guid has been justified," said the wife.
" Rahab was approved for hiding the spies, and denyin
their presence ; but I couldna ask ye to imitate Rahab. I
hae nae richt to dictate to my husband."

" But wouldna ye wish me, my dear Peggy, to stretch a
point to get yer faither's tears dried up, and yer ain stopped ?
Dinna hesitate, Peggy — speak yer mind bauldly — I'll forgic

ye"

" Ou ay," whimpered the gentle dame. " If Rahab was
justified, sae will Murdoch Waldie be forgiven."

" Weel — I'll try the boxmaster again," said the deacon.

Next day, accordingly, he threw himself in the way of
Mr Andrew Todd. The boxmaster had been in the cor-
poration hall, and was returning home to deposit the key of
the box in the place where he kept it. The deacon got him
inveigled into a public house, where, when they had seated
themselves, he saw that Mr Todd was blushing scarlet,
doubtless at the recollection of the scene that had taken
place the day before.

" Ye needna be ashamed, Andrew," said the deacon, " at
the conduct of Mrs Jean Todd. Ye werena to blame — I
assoilzie ye. Think nae mair o't. You can just sign a
fresh bill. I'll buy the stamp round the corner at Dickson's,
an' we can draw it out here."

" I beg yer pardon," replied Andrew ; " I maunna get
into that scrape again. I'll never resist the authority o'
Mrs Jean Todd mair on earth. To her I owe my boxmas-
tership — my trade — my status — my health — my happiness
— and a' that's worth livin for in this evil warld ; and
she will never hae it to say again, that I'm no gratefu for
the care she taks o' me, and the love she bears to me.
Let the warld say, if they like, that I am hen-pecked — I
dinna care."

" Weel, weel," replied the deacon ; " we were speakin
o' bills. Are ye quite sure that ye haena allowed the day?
o' grace in Templeton's bill to expire ? There's indorsee
there ; and if it is as I suspect, ye've lost recourse, and may
be liable for the debt."

" Mercy on us !" cried the terrified Andrew. " It's im-
possible. Dinna say't. Let me count." (Using his fingers.)
" Count, deacon — count, man."

" I think we had better see the bill itsel," cried the deacon.
" Where's the key ?"

" Here it is," replied the simple boxmaster, taking it
out.

" Give it to me," said the deacon, taking it out of
Andrew's hand — " we'll sune.see if the bill's past due."

Waldie hurried out of the room, telling Andrew, as he went
out, that he would come back, and inform him how the fact
stood. The mind of the boxmaster was now too much oc-
cupied about the danger of having allowed the days of
j grace to pass without intimation to the indorsers on the bill,
jto have an«- st>ace left for doubting the honesty of the

TALES OF THE 13OKJJEUS.

391

deacon. The suspicion of having been cajoled never ap-
proached him ; he sat and sipped the liquor that lay before
him, occupied all the time in a brown study, with the thought
continually rising — « What will Mrs Jean Todd say to my
stupidity, in making myself responsible for the amount of
Templeton's bill ? It will ruin me ; and a' her care and
prudence will in an instant be scattered to the winds." He
still sat expecting the deacon to return with the required
information. Half an hour passed, and no deacon came ;
but a messenger came with a note, stating that all was quite
safe, and that, as something had occurred to prevent the
writer from returning to the tavern, he had sent that intel-
ligence, to ease his mind, and that he would return the key
in the course of the day. Andrew's mind was relieved by
th/s statement ; he paid the tavern-keeper for the liquor,
an d went away, to resume his ordinary occupations.

At dinner-time he went home ; and, during the meal,
fie began talking again about Deacon Waldie.

" After a', said he, " he is a guid cratur, the deacon.
After the usage he got here last nicht, wha could hae thocht
he wad hae taen ony interest in my affairs ?"

'c Ye dinna require an assistant," replied Mrs Jean Todd,
" sae lang as I live."

" That's true," replied Andrew ; " but the deacon has
dune for me what ye couldna hae dune."

"What is that?" inquired the wife.

" He apprised me o' the danger I stood in," replied the
boxmaster, "anent Templeton's bill, that's in the corporation
box. I had forgotten, the date o' its becomin due, and he
brocht it to my mind. A's safe yet."

The very word " bill" made Mrs Todd prick up her ears.

" I hae lang thocht," replied she, " that yer corporation
papers, at least yer bills, which require greater care than
the rest, should be placed here, under my protection.
The circumstance that has occurred this day proves that I
am richt. Let us awa to the hall this instant, and bring
hame a' the papers that are valuable, and for which you
may be responsible. Is the key on the hook ?"

" No ; but I'm on the hook," muttered Andrew to him-
self, as he began for the first time to suspect he had been
duped. " No," said he aloud.

'•' Give it to me, then," said she. " It will be in yer
pocket, dootless."

Andrew began to exhibit symptoms of fear, which were
in an instant perceived and understood by the quick-eyed
dame, who was accustomed to look for indications of that
kind. She saw that something was wrong. He remained
silent, and his agitation increased as she fixed upon him
her piercing, relentless eye.

" Give me the key, man," said she, in an angry tone.

He still remained silent ; his agitation increased, and he
trembled in every limb.

" There's something wrang, Andrew," said she. " Tell
me what it is. I'm no angry. By tryin to conceal it, ye
may ruin us baith ; by tellin me, we may hae a chance o'
bein saved. Come, now, has Deacon Waldie the key?"

'< Ay" said Andrew, in a low tone. " He asked me
for't, to see if the bill was past due, and said he would
come back wi't; but he never made his appearance."

The good dame said not a word. She saw the necessity
for promptitude, and, running to her bedroom, hurriedly
dressed herself. In a few minutes she was on her way to
the corporation hall. In a few minutes more she arrived ;
and, having got admittance, placed herself in a recess, where
the incorporation box was deposited, and so disposed her-
self as that she might see whether any person interfered
"with the treasury. In a short time, Deacon Waldie entered
the hall, and, with secret furtive steps, approached the
DOX. He looked about him, but did not perceive the dame,
who, as she saw him approach, retired back farther into
the recess. He took ort the key and applied it to the,

lock. It was now time for Mrs Todd to save her husband.
Starting quickly out of the recess, she walked solemnly and
dignifiedly up to the official, before whom she presented
herself with a low curtsey.

" How are you, Mr Deacon Waldie ?" said she, repeating
her curtsey, and looking at him with an eye that pierced
him to the heart.

The deacon, who was a great stickler for etiquette, felt
himself, as he saw the dame curtseying before him, com-
pelled to return the compliment ; but the consciousness ot
guilt, the cutting satire of the dame's courteous demeanour,
the surprise at seeing her there, and his fear of being ex-
posed, all operated so strongly, that his bow was checked,
and transformed into a low cringe, making him appear only
half his natural size ; while the consciousness of rectitude
and the superiority of virtue swelled out the breast of his
silent accuser, and added apparently to her physical proper '
tions. Recovering himself in some degree —

" I was just about to examine our corporation papers,"
said he, irresolutely. " I like to assist Mr Todd in his
official capacity, while you keep him right in his private
affairs."

" Between the twa," replied the dame, without changing
her countenance, " he maun be weel taen care o.' "

As she said this, she quietly and deliberately took the
key out of the lock ; and into a large red cloth pocket which
hung alongside of a pair of scissors, with which the deacon
was already well acquainted, (having tested their sharpness,)
she deposited the important instrument. She then made
another low curtsey.

" Guid day to ye, Mr Deacon Waldie !" she said, as she
departed — " mak my best respects to Mrs Deacon Waldie
and to her worthy father."

The deacon stood stiff with amazement, looking after the
erect, dignified figure of Mrs Jean Todd, as she walked
slowly along the hall of the incorporation to the door.

He skulked off in the best way he could ; but she, with
erect body and noble carriage, directed her steps homeward,
where she found her husband in a state of intense fear and
anxiety, both on account of the danger he was exposed to,
and of the meeting that was about to take place with his
wife. On the latter account, there might apparently have
been little reason for apprehension ; for their meetings were
very unlike those mentioned in the old song—

" Then up scho gate-ane mekle rung,
And the gudeman he maid to the door ;

Quoth he, ' Deme, I sail hald my tung,
For an we fecht, 1 11 get the woir.' "

Her mode of conducting her rule was different toto coelo.
She walked into the house with the same erect carriage she
usually exhibited, especially when upon duty, and closing
the door after her, without using any such jealous precau-
tion as turning the key in the lock — a mode of enforcing
the conjugal authority she despised — she went up to the
table where her husband sat with his hand upon his brow.
That flag of distress she paid little attention to ; for she had
often before seen Andrew endeavour to make her own pity
plead the cause of his imprudence.

" Here is the key of the treasury-box, Mr Todd," said
she.

Andrew was greatly relieved ; but wonder took the place
of his fear, for he could not conceive how his wife could so
soon have got the key out of the hands of the deacon — and
yet for certain the key was before his eyes.

" See you that ring ?" continued the dame, holding out a
steel key-hoop on which were hung a score of keys, shining
as bright as silver, from the eternal motion to which they
were exposed in the red pocket of their mistress.

" Ay, weel do I see it," replied Andrew, " and weel do
I ken't. It is by that magic ring that a' my guids and

392

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

gear are girded and prevented frae fa'in into the staves o'
that bankruptcy and ruin I threatened this day to bring
upon them."

The dame replied nothing to the remark of her husband,
though she was inwardly well pleased to see him penitent ;
but, "opening the spring clasp, she deliberately placed the
treasury-box key upon the ring, along with the score of
others that had 'hung there for a score of years. She did
not deign to accompany this act by a single word of objur-
gation. Her faith rested altogether upon the ring, and to
have tried to add to the security it afforded her, by impress-
ing her husband with a deeper sense of his imprudence,
appeared to her to be sheer supererogation. Opening the
entrance to her red " pouch," she consigned, with a suit-
able admonitory jingle, the whole bunch to the keeping
of that huge conservatory of the virtues of " hussyskep."
She then resumed her ordinary duties, and Andrew was
delighted to have "got off," as he inwardly termed his
relief, with so easily-borne a reproof of his weakness and
imprudence.

The circumstances we have here narrated became, some time
after, known to the public, through what channel it would
be difficult to say, although it is not improbable that the box-
master, vain of the protecting care of his wife, had given
some hint of it, which, having been taken advantage of by
Deacon Waldie's enemies, gave rise to reports, and latterly
to a true exposition of the whole affair. The effect of such
a transaction upon the credit of any man, could not fail to
be ruinous. In a very short time, Deacon Waldie became
suspected and shunned — no one would trust him, few would
deal with him ; and, before the termination of the period ol
his deaconship, he failed — falling thus a victim to that
female domination he so much dreaded, and for submitting
to which he so much despised his friend the boxmaster.

The fate of Mr Todd was signally different. At the end
of the period of his office, there was a special meeting called
of the trade, for the purpose of making a vote of thanks to
their official, for saving the incorporation box from spolia-
tion ; and presenting him with a small piece of plate, in
commemoration of his services. This was a delicate matter
The members knew well to whom they owed the obliga-
tion ; but they could not, in a public hall, declare that their
boxmaster was assisted in his official capacity by his wife,
and, therefore, they resolved upon taking no notice of the
real boxmaster; who, however, like all good wives, woulc
be gratified by the notice that was taken of her husband
The vote of thanks was, accordingly, moved by the chair-
man, and supported by a very good speech. Mr Todd rose
to reply : —

" Gentlemen," he said, " ye maunna think that I am
sae blind as no to see what is yer true meanin, concealed
though it be, under this thick veil of courtesy and delicat*
regard to my feelings. Ye want to try to conceal frae m
that ye ken how muckle baith you and I are obliged to ;
sensible and discreet woman ; and ye hae twa reasons fo
this . first, ye dinna like to acknowledge that ye are in
debted to a woman for savin frae the hands o' the spoile
the incorporation box ; and, secondly, ye dinna like to sa
that yer boxmaster is under the kindly care and protec
tion o' his guidwife. Now, as to the first, I leave it in ye
ain hands, but as to the second, I will free ye frae a' deli
oacy and difficulty, for I here acknowledge and declare, w
pride and pleasure, that Mrs. Jean Todd is my counsello
and adviser in a' my affairs, baith public and private ; an
mony a time she has kept me frae that ruin whilk my ain wi
and wisdom never could hae saved me frae. I dinna nee
to say that it was that admirable woman wha saved th
incorporation box : the thing is already owre the town, an
dootless kenned to ye a', and I warrant ye also to ye
wives. Why, then, should I accept o' honour I never wrough
for, and couldna hae merited by a the power and skill

ny puir abilities? ' The labourer is worthy o' his hire.

Honour to him to whom honour is due.' I therefore

move that the thanks ye intended for me should be offered

o Mrs Jean Todd — to whom also, wi' your Dermission, I

vould suggest that the piece o' silverplate snould be pre-

;ented."

This speech produced much laughter throughout the hall.
Some humorous member relished the idea, and, standing
up, seconded the boxmaster's motion.

' A' our difficulty has vanished," he began ; " and glad
am I to see that the honour we intended for the real con-
servator o' our corporation-box may be, through the noble

pirit o' our nominal boxmaster, communicated without the
intervention o' a deputy. I second Mr Todd's motion, be-

ause I admire his spirit, and because I rejoice in an op-
portunity of doing justice to thae great conservators o' our

ex — the strong-minded, gaucy, thrifty, and loving wives o'
Scotland, to whom our very nation (if it were kenned)
awes the character it has acquired owre the face o' the
earth, for its prudence, its honesty, and its trust- worthi-
ness. Weel do I ken that the dear craturs hae suffered for
their exertions in the cause o' our sex, and their authority
has been attempted to be put an end to by drunken caitiffs,
wha, wantin the nobility o' mind to admire and serve wham
they canna equal, blaw up their pot-companions against
petticoat authority, by dubbin them hen-pecked, forgettin,
the wretched craturs, that that very hen supplies often the
egg, at least clocks to preserve it for future increase. The
very men the dear craturs feed, and clothe, and protect,
and cherish, sing in the pot-houses that they want their
liberty — •

" ' Becaus their wifis hes maistery,
That they dar nawayis cheip ;
Bot gif it be in privity,
Quhaiv thair wifis are in sleip.'

And, while the sang is birrin through the fumes o' the ale,
thae very wives are busy toilin to hae the singers weel fed,
cled, and cared for, in a' their concerns. What a noble
example, on the other side o' the question, has Mr Todd
this day exhibited ! Wives are generally honoured through
their husbands. He shall be honoured through his wife.
What I hae said, I believe will meet wi' the approbation
o' this meetin ; but I'm no sae sure o' the success o' what
comes — because I propose to tak a sma' liberty wi' the
English language, and, by a kind o' a trope or figure o'
speech, to keep the name, while we boldly change the
thing. I'm weel aware that our minutes bear that Mr
Todd is our boxmaster ; but we ken better than that, and
we, whase trade it is to change colours, can hae nae diffi-
culty in reconcilin the tints. I therefore move, as an
amendment, that the piece o' plate be presented at once to
Mrs Jean Todd, our boxmaster."

The suggestion took; the humour was relished; the
minutes were altered; the name of Mrs. Jean Todd was sub-
stituted for Mr. John Todd ; and the books of the incor-
poration bore, and bear to this day, that the plate had beet
presented to Mrs. Jean Todd, " their boxmaster" as a me-
morial of the gratitude of the trade for her exertions in
saving the incorporation's treasury.

WILSOJVS

ual, STralrttKwarg, anH Emas

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE SNUFF-MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

THK snuff-miller of Ballochgreen, Walter Morrison, was
one of the crustiest old fellows we have ever had the mis-
fortune to meet. Gruff, stern, surly, and morose, he was
the terror of his neighbourhood — the dread of all who came
m contact with him ; for, besides possessing this unhappy
temper, he was a man of immense stature, and great bodily
strength — qualities which, combined with the former, made
him altogether a most formidable person. Nobody, in fact,
who had the smallest grain of prudence in their composition,
or who had the smallest regard for their own personal safety,
would ever think of quarreling with him. If they did, they
would certainly come off but second best ; for old Walter
struck in a minute, and generally floored his customer at the
very first off-go. This propensity to settle arguments by the
reasoning of the fist, had cost Walter good round sums
on frequent occasions, in the shapes of damages and sola-
tiums to the parties injured ; but the habit was incurable.
The disposition to strike, to have recourse to violence in all
cases of opposition, or indeed of provocation of any sort,
was perfectly unconquerable. The only effect of the pro-
secutions he was subjected to, from time to time, for his
assaults, was to render him more cautious as to the when
and where of his castigations, and to make him prefer the
absence of witnesses when he would indulge in the recrea-
tion of pounding an offender.

Now, although of this unhappy temperament, Walter
had not the apology of adversity, or of straitened circum-
stances, to plead for it. He was rich, very rich, and -this
wealth he had realized by prosecuting the business of
a snuff-miller, which he carried on to a large extent.
In his family affairs and relations, Walter had not been
so fortunate. He had had many children ; but all of them
had died prematurely, excepting one. This one was a
daughter, Margaret — a pretty, lively, and most amiable
girl. Like other young women, Margaret was fond of a
little gaiety, of mingling in society, and not averse to the
attentions of her equals of the other sex ; hut these were
enjoyments from which she was almost wholly debarred, by
the cross-grained temper of her father, who, without assign-
ing any reason for it, would neither allow her to go abroad,
nor permit those whom she might wish to see to visit
her. He would permit of no visitations, no parties at his
house, and, above all things, of no one who might stand
in the relation of a lover to his daughter. He could not
endure the thoughts of her marrying ; and, on this account,
entertained a most particular aversion to the visits of young
men, which, under these circumstances, never took place
but when they could be made without the knowledge of
the old boy. It was not necessary, however, that such cor-
respondence as this should be concealed from the mother.
Partaking little of her husband's nature, she wished her
daughter to see as much of society as possible, and greatly
disapproved of the unnatural restraint under which she was
kept, and, most particularly, of her being denied all inter-
course with the respectable young men of the neighbourhood,
amongst whom she knew more than one whom she would gladly
»ave seen the husband of her daughter. The consequence
154. VOL. III.

of this sympathy of feeling between mother and daughter,
was a confederacy, which had for its principal object to
defeat the vigilance of Walter, in the matter of paying and
receiving visits. But even the conjoined ingenuity of
mother and daughter was not able to effect much in this
way, after all, especially in the branch of giving parties ; for
the old boy was constantly in the way, rarely from home
and yet it was only on these occasions that Margaret and
her mother could dare to bring any one to the house; and even
then, the proceedings required to be cleverly gone through,
as Walter's absences were generally very short ; and, if he
had come in upon them, there would, to a certainty, have
been mischief. If, therefore, tea was adventured on, on
any of these occasions, it was edifying to see with what
celerity the equipage was put down and removed. It was
like magic. In an instant the table was covered with cups,
saucers, &c., and in the same space of time were they
swept away. Heigh ! presto ! begone ! and there was not a
fragment or vestige of the tea equipage or its appurtenances
to be seen. This celerity of motion and expertness of
action, we need hardly say, the mother and daughter had
acquired by living under a constant terror of sudden ir-
ruptions from Walter, who, had he come in during the act
of tea-drinking, would have been very apt to have pelted
the cups and saucers at the heads of the visiters.

In proportion, then, to the strictness of the surveillance
under which Walter kept his wife and daughter, was, as
the reader will readily believe, their joy and satisfaction
when any circumstance occurred which, by taking him from
home for a night, secured them in one evening's entire and
uncontrolled freedom. Of these they always availed them-
selves to give a party, composed of their most intimate
friends; and they were generally very merry doings. There
was abundance to eat and drink, together with all the
other essentials to passing a happy and cheerful hour —
music being often added, and the carpet occasionally lifted
for a dance. Such opportunities for these enjoyments,
however, were of rare occurrence — very rare ; still they did
happen sometimes,, as we will now proceed more fully to
instruct.

It chanced, once upon a time, that Walter Morrison was
summoned to attend the circuit court, in the county town,
as a juryman. Now, the county town was distant from
Walter's house somewhere about thirty miles ; and their
being no coach communication between the two places, he
must, of necessity, perform the journey on his own pony —
circumstances these which seemed to his wife and daughter
calculated to secure his absence for one entire day and
night at any rate ; and great was the secret rejoicing of the
two ladies at the delightful prospect. They determined to
make the most of it ; and, with this view, held frequent
private conferences together, to resolve upon and adjust
proceedings. It was some time (these consultations being
entered into two or three days previous to Walter's de-
parture) before they could determine precisely what to make
of the approaching "day of grace ; but it was at length agreed
that they should, as usual, give a party ; with this differ-
ence, however, that it should be confined to young men— -
a few of the most respectable of that class amongst their
neighbours. This choice of the material of the proposed

31)1

TALES OF THE BORDEKS.

company, was the choice of Mrs Morrison, and was, no
doubt suggested to the worthy woman by the natural
desire of seeing her daughter put as much in the way as
possible of meeting with a suitable partner. Whatever
might have been her motives, however, such were the de-
scription of persons whom she proposed to entertain on the
day of her husband's absence, and to her decision her
daughter Margaret offered no objection. This settled, invi-
tations, in the name of Mrs Morrison and her daughter,
were quietly conveyed to some half-dozen young bachelors
of their acquaintance, on the day preceding that on which
Walter was to set out on his journey. This invitation bore,
that the ladies would be most happy of the party addressed's
company to tea on the following night at six o'clock ; and
the bearer of these messages Avas desired to hint, in each
case, that Mr Morrison would be from home on the evening
in question. This may seem to have been a superfluous
and unnecessary piece of information ; but it was by no
means so, in reality — and the ladies knew this. They knew
that nobody would come unless they were assured that
Morrison was out of the way ; and, moreover, some of them
would have liked to have been assured also that he would
be kept there — at least while they were under his roof ; for
every one of those who were invited on this occasion knew
of and entertained the most profound respect for old Walter's
prowess and ferocity. They Avould as soon have faced a
Russian bear as have faced the old boy in any situation, or
under any circumstances which might provoke his dis-
pleasure. The addenda, then, to the invitation of which
we have spoken, it will be seen, was not at all without its
use ; in fact, it was necessary, to account for there being
any party at all.

The invitations distributed, and all accepted, which they
at once were — for both Mrs Morrison and her daughter were
highly esteemed — such preparations as could be made,
without catching the eye of Walter, were immediately com-
menced, and carried on with great vigour and spirit. But
this circumspection was not long necessary. The morning
of Mr Morrison's departure came ; and on that morning he
departed accordingly, looking as grim, when he mounted
his pony, as one of the old warriors in Westminster Abbey,
or some ancient German baron setting out on a throat-cut-
ting expedition. The unhappy person on whose case he
was going to sit in judgment was to be pitied, if any faith
is to be put in looks ; for he was the very personification of
all that is merciless, and severe, and unforgiving. How-
ever, away he went, and the coast was clear for Margaret
and her mother, who, on that event taking place, lost no
time in completing their preparations. These preparations
tvere, in the present instance, on a considerable scale, as it
was determined to make a night of it — one of the merriest
and happiest that had been seen. And to contribute to the
accomplishment of this object, a fiddler was engaged, and a
dance contemplated. For this purpose, the largest room in
the house was selected ; but there was considerable diffi-
culty in preparing it for the occasion, on account of its
being filled with large bags or sacks of snuff, which, for
want of convenient stowage elsewhere, had been stowed in
here to await transportation to the city on the following
day. These unseemly incumbrances, however, were got
rid of. ^ The snuff-bags were crammed into every corner
into which they would cram. A lot of them were thrust
in below a bed that stood in a recess in the room ; other
parcels were stowed into the presses and closets that opened
into the apartment— until the whole were fairly disposed of
and out of sight. The reader may here imagine that we
are more minute in our notice of these snuff- bags than there
is any occasion for ; but he will find, by and by, that they
have more to do with our story than he would at present
readily believe. However, to proceed. All preparations
for the impending entertainment having been completed.

the two ladies, mother and daughter, and two female rela-
tives who were living in the house, but of whom we for-
got to speak before, attired in their best, awaited the arri-
val of their guests, in joyous anticipation of a merry and
pleasant evening. And with equal happy anticipation their
guests came. With countenances beaming with satisfaction,
they popped rapidly in, one after the other, until the whole
were assembled to the number of seven guests. The
men were all bachelors, of course, and, if not all positively
young, were, at least, the very oldest of them what may be
called youngish. Such as they were, however, here they
were, all seated around Mrs Morrison's tea-table ; and a live-
lier, more facetious, or more hilarious little party, you could
not have met anywhere. Every one was in higher spirits
than another, and the laugh and the jest went merrily
round, along with the tea and the toast. By and by, how-
ever, the sober and sedate joys of the tea-table gave way to
a more noisy and obstreperous mirth. There came the drink-
ing of healths, and the singing of songs, and all the other
sights and sounds of a particularly happy and a particularly
merry party. But, alas ! who shall guarantee the conti-
nuance of any earthly felicity ? — or who shall say to himself,
of this I am secure ? No one. None. At the moment
Mrs Morrison's party had attained the zenith of their hila-
rity— just when they had begun really and truly to enjoy
the spirit of the evening — a sudden scream from Margaret,
who was, at the moment, in a situation to command a view
of the short avenue that led up to the house, instantly
arrested the mirth of the revellers, and threw them into
he greatest alarm. They were soon made aware of the
cause.

" My father ! my father !" cried Miss Morrison, in the
most dreadful agitation. " Oh, mother, mother ! there's
my father !"

fi Your father, Miss Morrison ! why, on our word, that
is no joke^ and that your friends will find, unless they make
clean heels for it !" cried her mother, running in the greatest
alarm to the window, to judge for herself of the alleged fact.
The proceeding established the accuracy of her daughter's re-
port. There, to be sure, was old Crusty, jogging leisurely up
the avenue, and looking, if possible, crustier than ever. It was
an appalling sight. What on earth had brought him home so
soon ? How, in all the world, had he accomplished so great a
distance in so short a time ? These were questions pertinent
and curious enough, but which there was no time just now
to propound or inquire into. The great and instant busi-
ness in hand was escape, evasion, dispersion, conceal-
ment, avoidance, refuge — all or any of the expedients by
which danger may be eschewed. This every one felt — •
but how was it to be done ? There was no getting out of
the house ; for, from the house there was no egress ex-
cepting by the front door, and of this the old boy had the
full command, so far as view went, as he rode up the ave-
nue. Escape from the house, therefore, was impossible.
The discovery of this fact, and the imminence of their peril,
had all the effect on the party which might be expected-
The ferment amongst them was extreme. They flew in all
directions, like a parcel of rats amongst whom a terrier has
been suddenly let loose, with blind and desperate eagerness,
in search of holes and corners wherein to hide their de-
voted heads ; but their distracted hurry and dreadful trepi-
dation prevented all chance of success ; and the only effect
of their extreme anxiety to escape, was to keep them
running confusedly up and down the room, crossing and
recrossing each other, as if engaged in some strange, mad,
' irregular country dance. In the midst of this tremendous
hurryburry stood the mother and daughter, with outstretched
arms, endeavouring to catch the fugitives as they flew distract-
edly past them, in order to direct them to places of conceal-
ment ; for, though greatly agitated themselves, they yet re-
tained presence of mind sufficient to enable them at once to

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

recollect the various localities where they might be stowed,
and to assist in so disposing of them This the mother and
daughter, after much exertion and much trouble, finally
accomplished. A couple they packed below the bed, an
individual they stuffed into a press, another they thrust into
a closet, a third they squeezed into a locker, and so on,
until all were removed out of sight ; having previously re-
quired of each, in the most earnest manner, as they
deposited him, not to make the slightest motion or noise in
his place of concealment. Fortunately for Mrs Morrison
and her refugees, old Crusty was in no great hurry to enter
the house. He -went to the stable with his pony, and
with his own hand unsaddled him and rubbed him down.
These operations performed, he further waited until he had
seen the pony furnished with, and until he had seen him
drink a pail of meal and water which he had ordered for
him — proceedings these, on the part of old Walter, which
gave his wife and daughter ample time, not only to pack
away their friends, but to remove from the apartment every
trace of the evening's festivities.

On matters being made all quiet, Mrs Morrison and her
daughter took up seams apiece, placed a couple of chairs in
the window, and, looking as demure as possible, commenced
sewing with great apparent assiduity. They had not been
thus employed a second, however, when, in despite of all the
cautions they had given their concealed friends as to main-
taining- a. perfect stillness in their several retreats, they were
alarmed by strange noises suddenly arising at on« and the
same time in each and all of the depositories of the mem-
bers of their party. These noises resembled those that pro-
ceed from persons struggling fiercely to suppress some over-
mastering convulsion. It might be either a laugh, a cough,
or a sneeze. It could not be a laugh, however ; for, in their
present situation, there was very little to laugh at. Neither
could it be a cough ; for how should they be all inclined to
cough at the same time ? For the same reason it couldn't be
a sneeze. But it could, though — and good and sufficient
cause was there for it, and for the simultaneousness of
feeling, as shall be shortly explained. In the meantime —
to proceed methodically to our catastrophe — greatly alarmed
by these threatened outbursts of sound, Mrs Morrison and
her daughter, availing themselves of the instant of time that
was yet left them before the appearance of papa, hastened
to make the tour of their hidden friends, in order to warn them
again of the necessity of maintaining a dead silence. In pur-
suance of this duty, Margaret opened the door of a closet
two or three inches, in which was one of the noisiest of the
party, and was about to beseech him to keep quiet, when she
was rendered incapable of doing so, by the strangeness of the
attitude and condition in which she found him. He was
holding his nose firmly with his finger and thumb, and was
almost black in the face with the violent efforts he was
making to suppress a sneeze, that was relentlessly insisting
on being distinctly expressed. But his face was not only
discoloured by these severe efforts. It was also frightfully
distorted by the agonies of the resistance which he was
practising. He was making the most hideous grimaces.

" What is the matter, Mr Wilson ?" whispered Margaret,
in the greatest alarm, on seeing the condition of the sufferer.
But the sufferer could not answer the question. He durst
neither let go his nose nor open his moulh. He, however,
finally got out, piecemeal, and by sudden jerks, the words,
" The— snuff— the— snuff— oh !"

To a stranger, a person unacquainted with a certain par-
ticular, these words would have conveyed but little intelli-
gence. To Margaret, they spoke volumes. They instantly
Bashed a bright and startling light on her comprehension.
The closet into which the unfortunate sufferer was squeezed,
ivas crammed full of sacks of sriufF ; and. from the smallness
of the place, and its particular interior arrangement, his nose
was forcibly held right over, or rather thrust into the midst

of at least a couple of hundred weights of black rappee ; and
powerful was the exhalation it emitted. The consequences
were what we have described. It was a most unhappy pre-
dicament for all concerned ; and, to render matters worse,
every one of the gentlemen were placed in a precisely simi
lar situation, and exposed to the same irresistible sneeze-
provoking influence — there being snuff-bags in every one of
their places of concealment ; and the general result was,
that one and all were seized with, and struggling, as if be-
tween death and life, to counteract the strong agonizing
propensity to sneeze, which was threatening to tear their
very heads asunder. But there was no help for it. It was
too late to remedy the evil. The sufferers could not be re-
lieved ; for, at this moment, the old man's feet were heard
upon the stair. In the next, he had entered the room. He
was looking most appallingly grim. But there was nothing
apparently wrong. The room was all orderly, and his wife
and daughter were demurely seated at their seams. Even
the sneezers were quiet ; for they had become a\vare of the
dreaded presence of Walter Morrison ; but the effort must
have been a dreadful one. Of the feelings of the mother
and daughter at this critical, this tremendous moment, we
leave the reader to judge. He will conceive what they were
much more readily and more correctly than we could de-
scribe them; but we may say that they were most distress-
ing, most agonizing ; for they knew the snuff was in opera-
tion, and they feared, if they did not know also, where it
would all end. They both struggled hard, however, to con-
ceal their agitation from Walter, and to appear as cheerful
and easy as possible ; but in this they did not altogether
succeed. He saw, at once, that there was something wrong,
although he could not conceive what it was. He made no
remark, however, on the subject ; but sat down, and, to the
great horror of both mother and daughter, desired that
some supper might be brought him. Here, then, was the
certain prospect of a sederunt ; and that, too, under a
full conviction that the sneezing of the refugees could not
possibly be much longer suppressed. It was a most appal-
ling predicament, and was one, besides, which the two un-
fortunate ladies had by no means anticipated ; for they had
not reckoned on Walter remaining an instant in the room.
They thought he would have gone down immediately to the
mill, to see what was going on there, as had been his inva-
riable custom, on returning home, after ever so short an
absence. But the Fates, in this instance, had ordered it
otherwise. Down Walter sat, and supper Walter ordered.
Up to this instant, not the slightest noise was emitted in any
of the concealments. Their occupants were behaving admi-
rably— heroically ; although it must have been at the
expense of great bodily suffering. But, alas ! for poor hu-
man nature ! When undergoing unremitting torture, a
crisis must come. A point must be attained, beyond which
it can no farther endure. This crisis was fast approaching,
in the present case, in despite of all the sufferers themselves
could do to postpone it. The first indications of the im-
pending storm manifested themselves in certain short,
abrupt, stifled sputterings. On hearing the first of these
ominous sounds, which both mother and daughter knew to
be sure preludes to more open sternutations — to be, in truth,
the grumbling of Mount Etna previous to an eruption — •
they exchanged looks of horror, and both instantly com-
menced coughing as loudly as they could, in order to drown
the incipient noises which were now fast rising around them
in all quarters. The expedient, added to some vigorous
shuffling of the feet, to which they had also recourse, suc-
ceeded, for a time, in preventing Walter's attention being
attracted by the mysterious sounds in the apartment. But
this could not last long. Neither it did. An open, undis-
guised, and tremendous sneeze, from a press, at length
succeeded.

" What's that?" growled Walter, dropping his knife and

396

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

fork, which lie Avas now in the act of plying, and starting
fiercely to his feet— " Avhat's that?" he repeated, looking
hard at the place Avhence the extraordinary noise came.
But he Avas left no time for further remark. Another
sneeze, equally loud and vigorous, sounded the alarm in
another quarter. He turned quickly round to this neAV
scene of mystery. Another and another followed, all of
determined character and sonorous tone, in various direc-
tions, keeping him wheeling round as if on a pivot, until he
found that almost every receptacle in the apartment Avas
occupied by a sneezer ; but Avho they were, or how they
had got there, Avas beyond his comprehension — nor had he
yet directly asked. Perhaps the truth had flashed upon
him. In the meantime, the sneezing, in place of terminat-
ing Avith the single sternutations already emitted, continued
with- increasing animation and spirit. It became now, in
fact, general round the Avhole apartment, somewhat re-
sembling the running fire of a regiment on a field day.
The propensity had become uncontrollable, and, in despite
of all considerations, behoved to be given Avay to. In the
midst of all this sneezing stood Walter Morrison — an incar-
nation of amazement, anger, and revenge. Still he had
neither said nor done anything ; never asked the meaning
of what he heard ; nor given utterance to any exclamation or
remark beyond the " What's that" already mentioned.
He Avas evidently thinking Avhat he should do — where he
should begin, and hoAV. His silence Avas portentous. At
length he seemed to have made up his mind. Seizing an
immense cudgel which stood in one of the corners of the
apartment, he proceeded to one of the closets, flung open
the door, and, catching the unfortunate sneezer it contained
by the collar, dragged him, still sneezing violently, into the
middle of the apartment.

" Where the devil are you from, sir ?" shouted Walter, in
his most ferocious tones ; and, at the same time, brandish-
ing his stick over the head of his victim. " Who or Avhat
brought you here ?"

The person questioned would have Avillingly ansAvered ;
but he could not — the fit of sneezing Avas still on him ; and
all he could do, therefore, was to look appealingly in the
face of his interrogator, to deliver some abortive at-
tempts at speaking, and then to give Avay to another hearty
peal of sneezing. Walter could thus make nothing of him,
as a conversable being, but he could as a punishable — and to
this purpose he AVHS about to proceed to apply him, Avhen
the other sneezers, sympathetically affected by the predica-
ment of their unhappy associate, and in momentary expect-
ation of sharing his fate, began to sneeze their Avay out
of their respective holes and other places of concealment.
TAVO sneezing heads emerged from beneath the bed — ano-
ther sneezing head Avas thrust out of a press — another out
of a closet ; where they kept nodding and sneezing, and
looking Avith dismal countenances on the appalling scene
before them, AA ithout uttering, or being able to utter a Avord,
or daring to venture further. The exhibition Avas a most
ludicrous one, and Avould have excited the risibility of any
nian but Walter Morrison ; but on him it produced no
such result. The sudden protrusion of the nodding and
sneezing heads, however, had one good effect : it distracted
his attention from the unfortunate man whom he held in
his grasp. In the number of the sneezers Avas their safety.
This person, availing himself of Walter's momentary inat-
tention, eluded Ins grasp, and, bolting from the room, rushed
sneezing out of the house. The other sneezers, seeing the
success of this bold measure, instantly determined on doing
so likewise ; they made a simultaneous rush to the door":
Walter, in the meantime, having abandoned all idea of se-
lecting individuals, directed his vengeance against the \vhole
body generally and indiscriminately ; and, in pursuance of
this particular line of tactics, stood by Avith his stick, and
«hoAvered his blows, Avithout aim, but with abundance of

vigour, in amongst the flying sneezers. This part of the
exhibition, however, was but of short duration ; the latter
soon got out of the apartment, and finally escaped, rushing
in a string from the house, and maintaining, the while, a
running fire, alongst the whole line, of that unhappy sneez-
ing to which so large a share of the misfortunes of the even-
ing were owing. And thus closed the tea-party of the
snuff-miller's daughter.

THE INTERRUPTED CEREMONY.

HENRY MERTON was a young man of prepossessing appear-
ance, lively disposition, and agreeable manners. A liberal
education had put him in possession of all the accomplish-
ments becoming his position in society, which was highly
respectable ; and a generous nature and honourable spirit
completed his claims to the esteem and respect of all who
knew him. Henry Merton's father was a merchant in
Glasgow, and reputed wealthy. His concerns Avere exten-
sive, his credit unbounded, and his character of the highest
respectability. Mr Merton was, in short, one of the most
eminent men in the city. On completing his education,
the youth was apprenticed to a writer in Glasgow — it being
his father's wish that he should follow the profession of the
law as an advocate ; but he wisely considered it a neces-
sary preliminary step that his son should acquire, in the
experience of a writer's office, a knowledge of the practical
details of law proceedings before entering into the higher
departments of the profession. In the vieAvs of his father,
both present and future, the son himself cordially concurred.
He had a strong inclination for the bar, and early discovered
talents that promised to render him one of its most con-
spicuous and eminent members. In truth, fe\v young men
have started in life \vith fairer prospects, or Avho could have
been warranted in indulging more sanguine hopes of success,
than Henry Merton. On serving out his apprenticeship in
Glasgow, the young man was sent to Edinburgh, to com-
plete his legal education in the office of one of the most
eminent advocates in that city.

While thus situated, Henry, who A\ras noAV in his twenty-
first year, became acquainted with a young lady of the
name of Alice Morlington, the daughter of a gentleman of
considerable landed property, who resided in Stirlingshire,
and Avas, when Henry first became acquainted Avith her
completing her education in Edinburgh. The two first
saAV each other at the house of a mutual friend ; and from
that moment, both felt that they had seen the person Avhom
they could, if they did not already, love above all others.
With these feelings, the acquaintance of the young pair
soon ripened into intimacy, and that, again, speedily passed
into love — a love as passionate and devoted as ever warmed
the heart of tvro human beings. In the more ordinary
cases of persons situated as they Avere Avith regard to their
attachment to each other, the youth of the parties, and
the still more important circumstance, that they had no
resources of their OAArn to look to, would render all idea
of their marrying, the very extreme of imprudence and
folly. But in their case there Avas fortune on both sides.
Alice's father could give his daughter £10,000 ; and Henry's
father, there Avas no doubt, could, Avith ease, give his son
at least an equal sum, if circumstances should require and
Avarrant any such advance. Under these circumstances,
then, it Avill not seem so preposterous that the young pair
contemplated an immediate union, and that they did not
anticipate any objection on the part of their parents. They
felt there could be none on the score of in eligibility as
regarded each other. In fortune, and in their respective
positions in society, they Avere equal. There was, in short,
no discrepancies in their case to be reconciled, no difEcul-

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

39?

ties to be got over, save and except the consent of their
parents ; and this, they had no doubt, would readily be
accorded them. In the meantime — that is, for about two
years after their first acquaintance — Alice and Henry w«e
content to remain as lovers ; and in this relationship the
latter visited Alice, with the full consent of her father, at his
country seat, a beautiful and romantic residence in the shire
already named. Here the young pair spent several happy
weeks together, during the summers of 1753 and 1754 —
for of so old a date is our story — enjoying all the felicity
which a virtuous attachment, and the unrestrained enjoy-
ment of each other's society, wer<» capable of' affording.
They wandered, side by side, with their hands locked
'•ogether, by the woods and waters of Bargardine, breathing
to each other vows of constancy and love, and looking for-
ward, with bounding hearts, to the greater happiness that
was yet in store for them.

At the end of the period just mentioned, Henry, on
/•eturning to Edinburgh from a visit to Bargardine, wrote
to his father, whom he had long previously advised of his
attachment to Alice, requesting his consent to their union.
This consent he readily obtained ; when a correspondence
immediately took place between all the parties concerned,
including Alice's father, which ended in a final adjustment
of all preliminaries, and in the settlement of the day on
which the marriage should take place. That day was
named at the distance of a month. Amongst other arrange-
ments made on this occasion was, that the young couple
should take up house in Edinburgh after their marriage,
that city being the purposed scene of Henry's future career;
and this house Henry took upon himself the charge of
furnishing. This, however, was an undertaking in which
Henry, of course, could do nothing without the assistance
of his father ; but that, he knew, he had only to ask to
obtain. He, accordingly, wrote to him for the necessary
means, and relying, as he was aware he well might, on his
father's ability and willingness to aid him, confidently ex-
pected that the next post would bring him the desired
remittance. What was poor Henry's surprise and disap-
pointment then, when, after a delay of three days, which
alone was matter at once of great uneasiness and astonish-
ment to him, he received, instead of the expected funds,
the following painfully mysterious communication !

" MY DEAR HENRY,-— I duly received your letter, and
would have answered it in course, but delayed, for reasons
which will afterwards appear. I am afraid we have been
too hasty in the matter of your marriage. I wish things
had not gone so far yet. The truth is, I have received some
very bad accounts of my last shipments for the West Indies
and have been disappointed of remittances from that quarter
You must, therefore, have patience for a few days longer
when I shall again write you, and hope to enclose, at the
same time, an order for the amount you want. — I am, DEAR
HENRY," &c.

1 We leave the reader to conceive with, what feelings
Henry read this most alarming and most distressing com-
munication, and he will readily believe that the poignancy
of these feelings was not lessened by its being wholly unex-
pected. The possibility of his father's being unable to supplj
him with what money he might want, had never for i
moment entered into his mind. It was a misfortune he hac
never contemplated — never dreamt of. He believed him—
as everybody else did — to be one of the wealthiest men in
Glasgow; and undoubtedly he was, if remunerating re turns
could have been warranted for all his adventures ; but, us
this could not be, he was still within reach of the stroke o
adversity. Much, however, as Henry felt on this occasion
he sanguinely hoped that his father's second letter would
amply compensate for the first, by its good tidings ; and, in
this hope, he waited patiently for its arrival. At length
the anxiously looked for letter came. Henry opened "

with trembling hand, and read. It communicated his father's
bankruptcy !

On reading this distressing letter, which at once dispelled
all his fond dreams of coming bliss, Henry threw himself
down into a chair. His face was pale as death ; his lips
white as unstained paper ; and an overwhelming sense of
misery came over him, that prevented him for some time
fully comprehending the extent of his misfortune. He saw,
however, plainly enough, with fatal distinctness, that that
misfortune included the loss of Alice — the greatest, the most
distracting of all the evils which his father's reverses could
entail upon him. Had these reverses not involved this
misery, he could have looked on their consequences, so far
as regarded himself, with a steady eye and unflinching
heart — for he felt conscious of possessing talents that would
enable him to make his own way in the world ; but to lose
Alice, to forego all the felicity which he had promised him-
self from their contemplated union, was more than he could
bear. To see the cup of bliss thus unexpectedly dashed
from his hand, at the moment he was about to raise it to his
lips, was a trial of fortitude to which he fuund himself
unequal. It almost unsettled his reason. He started from
his seat, paced up and down his room in violent agitation,
and struck his forehead, from time to time, with the forcible
energy of despair. He suddenly paused. A thought had
occurred to him. He gazed fixedly on the floor for a few
seconds, with his hand pressed on his burning brow. The
thought urged itself more and more forcibly on his contem-
plation. It presented all its aspects to his mind's eye. It
assumed shape and consistency, and was finally adopted ;
and, in the same instant, the resolution to execute it was
formed. Desperate and fatal resolution !

Henry Merton determined to conceal from both Alice's
father and Alice herself the bankruptcy of his father, and
to allow the marriage to proceed in their ignorance of the
fact. But, dishonourable and indefensible as was this deter-
mination— a determination so inconsistent with the general
character of him who had formed it, as rendered it one of
those striking moral anomalies in human nature, which so
frequently occur to startle and astound us, and to over-
turn all previous calculation — but both dishonourable and
indefensible, we say, as was this determination of Henry
Merton's, it was wholly untinctured by the baseness of
pecuniary avidity. He cared not for Alice's fortune ; he
wanted none of it : it was Alice herself — it was Alice
alone he desired to secure ; and it was this desire, unmingled
with any other, that, in an unfortunate moment, overturned
all those principles by which it had hitherto been his pride to
square all his actions. But there was much more to
do to complete the contemplated work of deception. If
the marriage was still to take place, there was a house to
furnish, and a variety of disbursements of various kinds to
make ; a number of small items of expense, small individ-
ually, but considerable in the aggregate, to be incurred ; and*
Henry had not a guinea to meet them. It was within a week,
too, of the day fixed for the marriage, and it was not Henry's
interest to have it delayed. In delay there was danger of
discoveries taking place — indeed, certainty ; for the failure
of Henry's father could not but soon reach the ears of Mr
Morlington, through some channel or other. In truth, it
was matter of marvel, every day that passed, that the intel-
ligence had not reached him. All this Henry knew well ;
but he was prepared. He had matured his plans, and pro-
vided for contingencies. He hac. no money, but he had
thought of a way of obtaining it. Henry started one night for
Glasgow, with little more in his purse than paid the expenses
of his journey. He returned on the following night with £450
in his pocket Had he procured it from his father, or by his
father's means ? No : he had never even called on his father.
Some friend, then. No ; he had seen no friend. How, then,
or from whom had he it ? That will appear by the sequel

398

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

Henry, as we hare said, returned to Edinburgh with £450
in his pocket, and instantly began purchasing furniture for
his new house. But there was a singular change m Henry s
demeanour— a change that was not fully accounted for by
the known causes of uneasiness under which he laboured.
His look was now wild and haggard. He was morbidly
nervous too ; he started and shook on the slightest sudden
sound, and seemed to wince under the casual gaze of the
passer by., if protracted but for an instant. There was, in
short, a degree of feverish alarm expressed in everything
he said and did, that indicated but too plainly a distracted
and tortured mind. No less remarkable than any of the
other singular parts of his conduct, was the mystery in which
he seemed to desire to involve both his own identity and
his transactions with the different tradesmen whom he em-
ployed ; and, above all, the reluctance with which he gave
up his name — never doing this as long and as often, as it
was possible to avoid it. Having completed the furnishing of
his house, which he effected in an incredibly short space of
time, Henry wrote to Alice, informing her that " every-
thing was ready," and accompanied the letter by a hand-
some marriage ring, a necklace of beautiful workmanship,
and a pair of superb ear-rings. This letter was replied to
in course, by Alice, who poured out in that reply, almost
unknowingly and involuntarily, all the joyous feelings with
which her approaching happiness inspired her. The letter
was a compound of mingled playfulness and tenderness.
She threatened to subject the house to a severe scrutiny,
and to cashier the master of her household, if she found any-
thing amiss or in bad taste. To any one situated as Henry
was at this moment, but without the causes of secret misery
which were his, such a letter as this would have been a
source of exquisite delight ; but to him it brought no such
pleasurable feelings. There was a counteracting power,
against which no joy could prevail. On reading the letter
of his betrothed, Henry sighed deeply — nay, it was a groan,
a groan of anguish — folded it up with a melancholy and
disturbed air, and put it in his pocket. It had not had the
power to excite even one faint smile of satisfaction ; but
seemed, on the contrar}', only to have added a deeper shade of
sadness to a countenance already strongly marked by such
indication of a broken spirit.

At length the day of Henry Merton's marriage with
Alice Morlington arrived, and nothing had yet transpired to
discover to the bride's father the actual position of his
intended son-in-law. It had been arranged that the
ceremony should take place in the house in Edinburgh, in
which the young people intended to reside ; and for this
purpose, the bride, her father, and a young lady who was
to act as bridesmaid, came to town on the previous night.
Henry, who had been duly advised of their coming, was
waiting, with a friend, for their arrival. They came ; and,
notwithstanding the efforts which the former made to dis-
play the happiness which he ought to have felt, his changed,
embarrassed, and distracted look did not long escape the
observation of his intended bride.

On the following day, the wedding guests mustered in
Merton's house ; and the laugh, and the joke, and the mirth,
and the banter, usual on such occasions, were not wanting
on this. Henry made some attempts to join in the spirit
of the hour, and to appear as light-hearted as his apparently
happy position demanded ; but it was in vain. There was an
utter prostration of soul, an utter wretchedness of feeling,
which no degree of felicity could overcome, and no effort
conceal. _ It did not, however, attract any very particular
observation, or, if it was noticed, it only called forth some
bantering remark. The party was now waiting the arrival
ot the clergyman who was to unite the young couple. He
came ; and, after a short interval, there was a general move
towards the centre of the floor. The ceremony was about
to be performed. At this instant, a loud and startling

(knock, or rather series of knocks, rapid and fierce, was
heard at the door. On the ear of the unhappy bridegroom,
they struck like the knell of death. A faintness came over
him, and he would have fallen where he stood, but for the
aid of the person who was next him. It was a strange
and singular effect these knocks had, and, to those present,
most unaccountable. But, strange as it was, it was not
without a reason. Henry had a presentiment of evil.
What he had all along dreaded, all along lived in terror of,
he felt convinced was now about to happen. In the mean-
time, the rude summons was answered. The door was
opened, and loud, sharp, and harsh voices were heard in
the passage, and the name of Henry Merton was more than
once distinctly repeated.

" But you can't see him," the girl who answered the door
was heard to say.

" But we must see him, my girl," was the rejoinder, in a
gruff, peremptory voice.

" Pie's engaged. There is company with him. There
is a marriage in the house, and you cannot see him," replied
the girl.

"It's no use saying more about it, my lass," was re-
sponded in the same decisive voice ; " we shall and mill see
him — so shew us where he is at once." And the speaker
turned round and beckoned two men who accompanied
him, but who still stood in the doorway, to enter. They
obeyed.

" Stop, stop, then !" said the girl, seeing the men were
determined on having an interview with her master ; " and
I'll tell him to come out to you." And she tripped into
the room where the marriage party was assembled ; but
the three equivocal and uncourteous visiters were close
behind her.

They had not chosen to observe any ceremony in their
proceedings. On their entering, the principal of the three
advanced to Henry Merton, who was standing in the midst
of his assembled friends in a sort of stupor, and seemingly
quite unconscious of what was passing, and, touching him
on the shoulder —

" You are my prisoner," he said. " I apprehend you,
in the king's name, on a charge of forgery ; and here is my
warrant" — producing and holding out in his hand a blip
of paper, partly written and partly printed.

One simultaneous cry of horror and amazement burst
from the listeners to this dreadful announcement ; but
there was one whose expression of agony rose above them
all, and spoke of a despair and wretchedness which none
but that one could feel. It was Alice Morlington. 11 ei
frantic cries, as she endeavoured to reach Henry — which she
was prevented doing by her father and her other friends —
to fling her arms around him, to hinder him being taken
away, were dreadful and heart-rending. But her strength
was not equal to the struggle. She finally sank senseless
into the arms of the bridesmaid, and, in this piteous con-
dition, was carried out of the apartment. But how Avas
the unfortunate bridegroom conducting himself during this
trying scene ? He was standing immovable : fixed as
a statue ; his countenance cadaverous ; his lips glued
together; his eye wild and unsettled. From the moment
the officers of justice entered, he neither spoke nor moved;
neither expressed, by sign nor word, what were his feelings
on this dreadful occasion ; but stood motionless, speechless,
and apparently lost in the mazes of a frightful bewilder-
ment. Horror, despair, had benumbed every faculty, and
left him in possession only of a vague, stupifying conscious-
ness of the dreadful situation in which he stood. This
scene, however, could not be of long continuance. Neither
was it. The officers intimated to their prisoner that lift
must accompany them, and moved towards the door, pre-
ceded by the latter, who mechanically obeyed the intimation
given him, but still without s^eakin^, or making any sign

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

399

indicative of a sense of his situation. In the next instant
tie party, with their prisoner, had left the house, and, in
a moment after, the wheels of a chaise w^e heard rattling
away in the distance.

The harrowing sequel of our tale is soon given. Henry
Merton had forged a bill on his former employer in Glas-
gow, a respectable solicitor, in the vain hope that he might
be able to retire it, from the funds which he calculated his
marriage would put him in possession of, before it became
due ; but the forgery had been detected, and the conse-
quences we have in part seen. The inevitable remainder
followed ; for the laws were then administered with sangui-
nary ferocity. Henry Merton was tried, convicted, and
executed. It was endeavoured to conceal this horrid issue
af the unfortunate young man's guilt from his scarcely less
unfortunate betrothed ; but, by some means or other, she
learned it all ; and the same week that witnessed the igno-
minious death of her Henry, saw her cut off in the bloom
and pride of youth and beauty, deposited within the pre-
cincts of the silent tomb.

THE HEIRESS OF BALGOWAN.

TIIK Laird of Balgowan, at the period of our story, was a
widower, with an only child, Edith, the heiress, then in her
eighteenth year. In this girl all the laird's affections were
centred. She was the apple of his eye, the delight of his heart,
the idol of his adoration: and there was, indeed, little wonder
that she should ; for Edith was " beautiful exceedingly," and
gentle and warm-hearted — equally fair in mind as in form.

On Edith's return from Edinburgh, where she had been
sent by her father to complete her education, and where
she had resided for several years for this purpose, the laird
celebrated the event by giving an entertainment to a large
party of friends. These consisted chiefly of neighbouring
proprietors of about the laird's own standing in society ; but
amongst them were some of the more respectable of his
own tenants, with, as was the custom of the times, in such
merry-makings in the country, their wives, sons, and
daughters. Of those of the second description of persons
present on this festive occasion, was a young man of the
name of George Lennox, the son of a very worthy, but a
very poor man, who rented a small farm from the laird.
George himself was a handsome youth, of prepossessing
mein, mild demeanour, and gentle and affectionate nature.
But his situation in life was of the humblest class. He
•Was but the son of a small farmer — earning a moderate sub-
sistence by the labour of his hands — lowly in station, and
unambitious in hopes.

On the night of the festival which celebrated Edith's re-
turn to Balgowan, George, as we have said, was amongst
the revellers ; but, feeling awed in the presence of so many
of his superiors, as he considered some of those present, he
modestly sought as much retirement as the place and cir-
cumstances would admit of, and remained rather an unob-
trusive spectator of the revelries of the night than a par-
taker in them. But George had other thoughts than those
that belonged exclusively to the scene, and another object
than the revellers filled his corporeal as well as mental eye.

His gaze was fixed on Edith. And how was it that hers
was so often turned stealthily on George Lennox ? — and how
was it that she blushed and averted her head when their
eyes met, and that she seemed almost unconscious of the
attentions of the young men of higher pretensions who
were around her ? Could it be that the youthful and
accomplished heiress of Balgowan loved the son of the
humble farmer ? — that she preferred him, with all his
poverty and simplicity of manners, to infinitely wealthier
Buitors ? It could be so, and it was so.

George and Edith had been playmates in their childhood,
when neither dreamt or knew anything of love. Often
had they pulled wild flowers together — often, together,
" paidled in the burn." They were then, in short, insepar-
able ; their infantine years precluding all discriminations
of rank either on their own parts, or that of their guar-
dians. But time passed on, and the hour of separation
came. They parted. Ellen was sent to Edinburgh, for the
purpose already mentioned ; and George was called to enter
on that life of labour which was his inheritance.

Although the young pair parted with regret, neither yet
knew of what nature was the tie which bound their hearts
together. This was a secret to be afterwards revealed.

Again years rolled on ; and the heiress of Balgowan, who
had left home a child, returned to it a woman, iiuteven in
absence, the germsof that attachment of whose very existence
she was wholly unconscious, had sprung forth, and " had
grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength."
She could not herself tell how it Avas, that she so often
thought, while at a distance from him, of her humble play-
mate ; nor could she account for the circumstance of
George Lennox obtruding himself so often in her dreams.
Her return to Balgowan disclosed the secret. George ond
she met by accident on the very day of that occurrence
and just as she was making towards her father's house after
her arrival. She was alone. They met; and in that mo-
ment of meeting, the true position in which they stood with
regard to each other was made manifest to both, almost
without sign or word. Both felt, and felt for the first
time, the true character of their attachment. The affec-
tion of childhood was, by an easy transition, converted in a
moment into the strong, passionate, and ardent love of
youth. But their relative worldly positions, with regard to
each other, were now to be more carefully defined, and their
limits observed. George Lennox, the poor farmer's son,
was not to be named in the same breath with the heiress of
Balgowan, still less to aspire to her hand. Their inter-
course, therefore, if any, must of necessity be clandestine ;
for the proud laird of many scores of broad acres would not
brook connection with one who earned his livelihood l>y
the labour of his hands, and who owned no portion of this
world's wealth.

It was all unconscious, therefore, of the mutual attach-
ment of George Lennox and his daughter, that the Laird of
Balgowan invited the former to the festival which welcomed
her return.

We have said that the intercourse of the lovers, if any,
must now be clandestine. But this was a course which the
sense of propriety would permit neither of them to pursue,
nor even to think of.

George had determined at once to relieve Edith from the
pain and embarrassment which his near vicinity, he believed,
must occasion her, and himself of the corresponding feel-
ings of which her vicinity to him was equally the source,
by going abroad ; and so prompt was he in his purpose, and
so resolute on its execution, that he had fixed the morning
following the celebration of Edith's return to Balgowan as
that of his departure. Of this he had apprized her, and,
while he did so, besought her to favour him with a parting
interview. Edith consented; and it was finally fixed that
they should meet, for a few minutes, at a certain old oak
tree that stood on a small level plat of green, close by the
river of Smerby, which ran past the house of Balgowan,
at the distance of a few hundred yards. It was arranged,
too, that Edith should come accompanied by a certain con-
fidential female domestic, to whom she had entrusted the
secret of her attachment. The hour fixed was ^ eleven
o'clock, being the same night on which the entertainment
was given by the Laird of Balgowan.

In the meantime, (to revert to that circumstance,) " the
dance gaed through the lighted ha/ " and all was mirth and

400

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

revelry ; for the fiddle had struck up, and the dancers had
taken to their feet, and beautiful, transcendantly beautiful,
looked the young heiress in the gay and graceful dress
which she had donned for the joyous scene, and light and
graceful was her step as she glided through the mazes of
the dance.

The idol of the night, she was surrounded with worship-
pers, who eagerly sought her smiles, and coveted, as a
precious thing, the glance of her soft blue eye. But Edith
had neither smiles nor glances to bestow on those by whom
they were just now solicited. Her thoughts were elsewhere,
and all her sympathies absorbed by one engrossing feeling.
One object alone filled her mind, and around this single
object all her associations clung. However wide or far
apart their origin, there they were sure at last to terminate ;
concentrated, as it were, by a mental lens. This object was
George Lennox.

It Avas yet but an early hour of the evening when George,
who, as we have already said, took little or no part in the
revelries of the night, stole unperceived, or at least un-
heeded, out of the apartment in which they were held. But
he did not do this before exchanging a significant look with
Edith. It was a slight and momentary glance, unmarked
by any but themselves ; yet to both it seemed perfectly in-
telligible.

On quitting the apartment which was the scene of the
night's festivities, George hastened down to the river side.
His purpose was to cross it ; for his father's house was on
the opposite side, and he was now going thither, to get a
trinket — a gold ring or brooch — which he intended to pre-
sent to Edith at their parting, as a token of his love, and as
a symbol by which she might remember him when the giver
was far away in a foreign land. He passed by well-known
stepping-stones, the river being now considerably swollen by
recent rains. Having reached home, George sought out the
love-gift he intended to give away, changed his dress, and em-
ployed himself in various little matters connected with his
intended departure, till the hour appointed for meeting with
Edith approached. On its near arrival, he left the house, and
retraced his steps towards the fordof the Smerby, which he
soon reached ; but was not a little startled by its now ex-
tremely swollen and turbid appearance. It had increased
greatly since he had passed it a few hours before, and was
now roaring " frae bank to brae." George eyed for a
moment, with something of awe and hesitation, the boiling
and eddying stream, and, approaching close to its edge,
looked intently, for a few seconds, in the line of the step-
ping stones, or rather where he believed them to be ; but
they were now wholly invisible. He saw, however, what
he conceived to be the ripple made by the stones on the
surface of the water ; and, trusting to this as a guide, as he
was determined at all hazards to cross, he boldly leapt on
the first. His calculation had been accurate ; for he stood
securely on the very centre of the stone, though up nearly
to his middle in water. On gaining this step, he planted
one end of a long pole or branch, with which he had pre-
viously provided himself, firmly on the bottom of the stream
beneath him, and prepared for a second step, although,
even as he stood, he had some difficulty in resisting the
force of the current, which broke on him with a rushing
sound, and made him swing and totter on his feet. Seem-
ingly unaware of his own danger, or at least unappalled by
it, George made another deliberate step, then another, and
another, and each time succeeded in obtaining a footing ;
but his peril was now greatly increased ; for the water
gained in depth and force as he advanced. He was now
on the centre stone ; and here, at length, and for the first
time, he seemed to become fully aware of his danger, and
of the jeopardy he was in; for it -was long before he
attempted to make another step, and he appeared, mean-
while, to be struggling hard to maintain the i-osition he had

gained. The rash and daring adventurer now looked
earnestly and anxiously for the ripple which shouM indicate
the position of the next stepping stone ; but, alas ! there
was no ripple to be seen. The water was here too deep.
It was flowing past rapidly ; but smooth and undisturbed.
George thought, however, he saw a slight irregularity on
the surface, and this, he again thought, must be occasioned
by the stone beneath. He had no doubt of it. It was
just over the place where he knew the stone to be. To
make more sure of this, however, he would have felt for it
with his stick previously to stepping on it ; but he could
not take the latter for an instant from the duty it was per-
forming— namely, that of supporting him against the force
of the current. He was, therefore, obliged to trust, in some
measure, to conjecture ; but he had perfect confidence in
its accuracy, and unhesitatingly stepped out. Fatal con-
fidence ! One piercing cry, one heavy plunge, announced
the dreadful issue of poor George's daring and foolhardy
undertaking. But what wild shriek was that which re-
sponded to the death-cry of George Lennox from the oppo-
site bank of the river ? And, more appalling still, what
plunge is that which is again heard in the deep and dark
waters of the Smerby? Who was it that rushed wildly to
the edge of the river, and, reckless of all consequences,
leapt into the boiling current, after the ill-fated youth who
had just fallen in ? It was Edith Ritchie, the heiress of
BalgoAvan. She had witnessed the dreadful catastrophe
which had befallen her lover, and this was the hapless result.

Little recking of what was passing without, the dance
was still going on merrily at Balgowan. The windows were
still blazing with light, and the lively strains of the fiddle
had lost none of their energy or glee. Edith had been
missed from the scene of the festivity ; but, as her absence
had been but short, nothing was thought of it, and no in-
quiries were made ; but, suddenly, loud and wailing cries
from without, cries of strange and fearful import, struck on
the ears of the revellers. The dancers stopped in the dance ;
the musicians ceased their strains; and each looking at
the other in alarm, asked what was the matter. None
could tell. The wailings from without increased. Domestics
ran to and fro. Guests hurried to the door. The banquet
hall was deserted; and rapidly and breathlessly were ques-
tionsas to themeaning of this sudden alarm, bandied from one
to another ; for all felt assured that something dreadful, of
whatever nature it might be, had occurred. All uncertainty,
however, in this matter was soon to be set at rest. A
small group of persons were seen approaching the house
with slow and measured pace. They came nearer, and, as
they did so, they appeared to divide into two distinct
groups, each of which bore along a temporary bier. On
these biers lay two dead bodies. They were those of
George Lennox, and Edith Ritchie, the young and beautiful
heiress of Balgowan. Like a bride she lay in her festive
dress and wreathed hair, lovely even in death.

The bodies of the two lovers had been found close to
each other, a little way down, at an abrupt turn of the
river. They were subsequently laid side by side in one
grave ; and the stone with the two hearts transfixed by one
arrow, marks the spot which holds their remains.

WILSON'S

fcal, Qfrattftfonairg, antr Smagtnatft*

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND

THE TWO SAILORS.

DNE dark and cloudy evening in September, two young
vnen were seen walking on the road that winds so beauti-
fully along the shore of the Solway, below the mouth of the
Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock. The summit of
Criffel was hidden in clouds ; the sky was dark and threat-
ning ; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening
crests of the waves, as they broke before the freshening
breeze, gave warning that a storm was at hand. At some
distance, a two-masted boat, or wherry, as it is there called,
lay on the beach, half afloat in the rising tide ; and a boy sat
on the green bank near, apparently watching her.

The two men appeared, by their dress, to be sailors.
They were both in the prime of life, and remarkably hand-
some; but their countenances were of very different expres-
sions. The one, whose short, crisp hair curled over a
forehead embrowned by exposure to the elements, had the
frank, bold, joyous look which we love to recognise as a
characteristic of the class of men to which he belonged ; the
other, his superior in face and figure, as well as his senior
in years, had a deep-set dark eye, whose very smile was
aminous of the storm of evil passions and tempers within.
Their conversation was loud and earnest, and was carried
on in tones of considerable occasional excitement ; the
violent motion of their hands, and the increasing loudness
of their voices, gave token that passion was beginning to
usurp the throne of prudence — till at last, the elder of the
two, stung to madness by some observation of his com-
panion, suddenly raised his hand, and struck him a blow on
the head, which made him stagger for some paces. Quick
as lightning, however, he recovered himself, and rushed to
avenge the blow. A short and violent struggle ensued; and
then the younger, whom we shall call Richard Goldie, sat
astride the prostrate body of his antagonist, panting with
violent exertion, and with his knees pinioning the arms of
the other to the ground ; while the latter, exhausted with
his exertions, made feeble and ineffectual struggles to rise.

" Let me rise," said he, at last, in a sullen tone ; " you
need not be afraid."

" Afraid !" replied the other, with a contemptuous laugh ;
" it wad ill set a born and bred Nithsdale man to fear a
mongrel of a foreigner. Rise up, man — rise up ; ye brought
it on yersel. I wadna cared for yer sharp words, or yer ill
tongue, had ye but keepit yer ban's aff. But dinna look
sae dour-like, man. Ye needna be cast doon aboot it ; it
was a fair stand-up fecht, an' ye did yer best. Come, gie's
yer ban', an' we'll think nae mair o't ?"

" Richie Goldie," said Cummin, rejecting the proffered
hand, and drawing back, as if he thought its touch would
be contamination, while his eye flashed with vindictive fire —
" Richie Goldie, hear me. When we "were boys at school
together, you were like a serpent in my eyes. Since we left
it, you have always crossed my path, like the east wind, to
blight, and blast, and wither all the flowers that lay in it.
You have stood between me and my love ; and now you
have struck me to the earth, and wounded me, when fallen,
with your taunts and sarcasms. You have roused the
slumbering devil within me, and, before he sleeps again,
155. VOL. III.

you shall bitterly repent this day's work : you shall find the
mongrel foreigner is no mongrel in his revenge !"

" Dinna talk that fearfu gate," said Goldie, laughing ;
fi ye'll mak a body think ye're clean demented — speakin o'
revenge, and lookin at a man as if ye wished yer een war
daggers. I wish ye a better temper an' a kinder heart. I
fear neither you nor yer revenge ; an', as we maun gang this
trip thegither, just put yer revenge in yer pouch, an' let's
'gree an' be freens."

So saying, he sprang into the boat, which was now rock-
ing in the tide, and, rewarding the boy for his trouble, and
followed in sullen silence by Cummin, he hauled aft the
sheets, and in a few minutes the boat was dancing over the
waves towards Annan.

It is now necessary that we should introduce the two
heroes of our tale more particularly to the reader, which we
will endeavour to do as concisely as possible. Edward
Cummin's mother was an Italian, who had accompanied a
family of rank to England in the capacity of lady's-maid.
She was a beautiful woman, of warm and violent passions,
and, for her station in life, remarkably well-informed and
clever. Her mistress had a high opinion of her, and thought
she was throwing herself away when she asked permission
to marry her master's gardener ; but, finding that her argu-
ments to dissuade her from the connection were ineffectual,
she gave her consent to it, and did all in her power to ren-
der her favourite's married state a comfortable one. For
seven years the Cummins lived a happy and industrious life
together — the only fruit of their union being a boy, the
Edward of our story. He w7as an uncommonly handsome
child, and was very much noticed by the family at the hall,
from whom he received the rudiments of an excellent edu-
cation, and acquired manners and habits superior to his
station. He was the idol of his parents ; but his father — a
sensible, steady Scotchman — did not allow his partiality to
blind him to his son's faults, and was firm and steady in his
correction of them ; while the mother, with foolish and mis-
taken fondness, endeavoured on all occasions to conceal his
failings, and soothed and caressed when she ought to have
checked and punished him. The consequence was, that
young Edward soon learned to fear his father, and to despise
his mother — and dissimulation and hypocrisy were the natu-
ral consequences of such contradictory management. At
this time, circumstances obliged the family to leave the hall,
and settle on the Continent — the estate was sold, and
Cummin, being deprived of his situation, returned, with his
family, to his native place. Here their nearest neighbours
were the Goldies ; and a considerable degree of intimacy
arose between the two families. The boys, Richard Goldie
and Edward Cummin, were sent, during the winter months,
to the same school, where a great deal of apparent friend-
ship subsisted between them. But, on Edward's part, it
was all seeming — for he was a hypocrite by nature, and, to
suit his own purposes, could fawn, and cringe, and flatter,
with an air, at the same time, of bold off-hand independ-
ence ; and it was his interest to keep on good terms with
Richard Goldie, who, though younger than himself, was
more active and hardy, and who really mas, what lie pre-
tended to be, courageous and independent. But, in his
heart Edward hated his high-spirited companion : it was

402

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

gall and wormwood to his prou -1 and vindictive spirit to
notice the evident partiality shewn towards Richard by his
companions, and the coolness and avoidance evinced towards
himself. Several circumstances at last transpired, which
served to open Richard Goldie's eyes to the true character
of his pretended friend ; and a coolness arose between them,
which, though it never proceeded to an open rupture, for
some time put a stop to the closeness of their intimacy.
Years passed, and the young men both adopted the sea for
a profession, and sailed for some time together in the same
vessel — an American trader, "hailing" from Dumfries. Here,
as at school, though both equally active in the performance
of their duties, Richard Goldie's frank and generous dispo-
sition rendered him a favourite with the rest of the crew,
while Cummin in vain strove to make himself popular — he
always was, or fancied himself to he, an object of distrust
and aversion. Towards Goldie he maintained the same
apparently friendly and kindly bearing, while he was storing
up bitter feelings against him in his heart. It was strange
that, with growing though concealed hatred on the one side,
and with want of confidence on the other, these two young
men should have continued to associate, and to keep up a
companionship, which it only depended upon themselves to
discontinue ; but so it was. They had learned from the
same books ; they had sported beneath the same roof; they
had risen from boyhood to manhood together ; and they
could not, though so different in disposition, entirely sever
the links with which early associations had bound them to-
gether. In the neighbourhood of Kelton lived an old fisher-
man, whose daughter was one of the loveliest girls in the
district. Our two companions, being near neighbours of
old Grey, were very constant in their attentions to him :
they managed his boat for him, helped him to mend his
nets, and made themselves useful in every possible way.
Some of the neighbours insinuated that all this kindness
proceeded less from a regard for the old man than from a
wish to conciliate his pretty daughter. That, however, was
matter of doubt ; and old Grey took the " benefit of the
doubt," and the compliment to himself. While flattering
the father, however, they were both very assiduous in their
attentions to the daughter, and each in turn fancied that he
was the object of her exclusive regard. But Ellen Grey was
as sensible as she was lovely, and had met with so much pass-
ing admiration, and knew so well what value to put upon
it, that she was but little affected by this additional proof
of her power. She liked both the young men as pleasant
companions, but had, as yet, shewn no decided partiality
for either. She was perfectly well aware that they both ad-
mired her, and she was gratified by their attentions — as what
pretty woman would not have been ? — but the only use she
made of her influence over them, was to restrain their angry
passions, and to keep up friendly feelings between them. Of
ihe two, Cummin was the most calculated to please the eye
and attract the fancy of a young and inexperienced girl ; for,
besides being more strikingly handsome than Goldie, in
his intercourse with the softer sex he had successfully
studied the art of concealing and glossing over all the worse
qualities of his nature. Goldie, on the contrary, was frank
and open to all alike ; he was manly and independent in
his address to females, and never stooped to flattery or dis-
simulation. Things went on in this uncertain way for some
time, till the young men, wearied of sailing backwards and
forwards to and from America, resolved to vary the scene,
by making a voyage to India. Although they both felt that
friendship was with them but a name, yet they had become
so united by habit and early association, that they could not
make up their minds to separate, a^id accordingly agreed to
" enter" on board the same ship.

^ The evening on which our story commences, was the one
fixed upon for their departure. Goldie had been to Annan
the day previous, to ascertain the time of the steam-boat's

sailing for Liverpool, and had borrowed a boat from a
friend of his father's there, in which he and Cummin were
to return. They had passed the afternoon together at old
Grey's, and Cummin fancied that Ellen smiled more kindly
upon his rival than upon himself. She immediately, with
the quickness of woman's tact, perceived and endeavoured
to remove the impression — but in vain ; and, in so doing,
excited the jealous feelings of Goldie. They left the house
in gloomy silence ; but had not proceeded far before their
irritated feelings found vent in words — few, and cautious,
and half-suppressed at first, but gradually increasing in loud-
ness, and energy, and bitterness, till the result was the
struggle we have already described. Cummin's face, as he
sat beside Goldie in the stern-sheets of the boat, was a true
index to the black and vindictive passions that boiled with-
in his heart. His glaring eye, set teeth, clenched hand,
and heavy breathing, told too plainly what was passing
within. A child might have read his secret on his brow — .
and yet he was too great a coward to utter it. He sat brood-
ing over his wrath, and nourishing dark thoughts of hatred
and revenge against his unconscious companion, whose
momentary anger had passed away, and left no trace behind
it.

" Ye're as quiet's a sittin hen, Ned," said he ; "I doot
ye 're hatchin mischief. Dinna tak on sae, man ; let bygancs
be byganes, an' think nae mair aboot it."

Cummin's first flush of rage had by this time passed
away, and he began to think of the expediency of appearing
to be reconciled to Goldie — for he knew that it was only by
treachery and cunning he could hope to gratify his longing
for revenge. He, therefore, in reply to Richard's speech,
grasped him warmly by the hand, and said —

" Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that
I bear you any ill-will on account of what has passed. The
words I utter'd in my passion I am sorry for and disclaim,
now that I am cool. I was angry — very angry, certainly ;
but that is past. How can you wonder that I am sad and
silent, when you remember that we may never return to
the ' bonny banks o' Nith ?' We are going among stran-
gers, and into strange lands: let us not forget our old
friendship — let us always be friends as well as countrymen."

" That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates," replied Gol-
die. " What wi' yer English lingo and yer grand words,
ye talk for a' the warld like a prented buik ; it does a body's
lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, ' shouther to shouther's' the
word in the Highlands, an' we'll tak it for our by-word."
And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by
the hand.

Next day, they took their passage in the steamer for
Liverpool, and from thence made the best of their way to
London. There they were soon picked up by one of the
a crimps," on the look-out for men for the outward-bound
Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped
on board the Briton — a vessel of twelve hundred tons.
Here everything was strange to them, and they were sub-
jected to a course of discipline to which they had not before
been accustomed. They both proved themselves to be
smart, active young fellows, and good seamen ; but at first
Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie — for he was
too cunning and time-serving to commit himself in any way ;
while the latter, always in the habit of speaking out his
mind boldly and freely, frequently got himself into trouble
by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness of his
remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in
their true colours, and the scale was turned in favour of
Goldie, whose frank and open manners, and straightforward
fearless confidence, established him in the general good opi-
nion of his officers and messmates ; while, on the other hand,
the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more
apparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance
to the latter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

403

rankled deep in the heart of the vindictive Cummin ; and,
forgetting that he himself was the cause of it, he attributed
all to the influence of the detested Goldie. A circumstance
soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of evil
passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was
within a few degrees of the equator, when one day a strange
sail was seen ahead, which proved to be a " homeward-
bounder." The captain immediately determined to board
her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief mate.

" Midshipman ! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the
letters, and pass the word fore and aft that a bag is going
to be made up for England. First cutters, clean themselves !"

The breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as
the stranger was still at a considerable distance, orders were
given to " pipe to dinner," and for the cutter's crew to come
up as soon as they had dined, to lower the boat down. In
a short time, the coxswain of the boat — a fine, active, young
north-country man — came up with three of his crew, two of
whom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat,
while the coxswain, with the other man, jumped in to be
lowered down in her. One of the men at the " falls" was
Cummin ; lowering away, quickly and carelessly, he allowed
the rope to run too quickly round the " cleat," and, not
being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go " by
the run." The consequence was, that the stern of the boat
was plunged into the water, while the bow hung suspended
in the other tackle — the men were thrown out, and the poor
coxswain, not being able to swim, made two or three inef-
fectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident
was so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little ap-
parent danger — for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond,
and the poor fellow was within arm's length almost of the
boat's gunnel — that he was gone almost before an alarm was
given. The men were all below at dinner ; but ill news
flies fast — in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways,
each hurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first
up, and, rushing aft on the poop, he exclaimed, " Where is
he?" and hardly waiting for an answer, sprung over the
tafferel into the water, a height of twenty feet, and dived
after the sinking man ; but in vain — the poor fellow was
gone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin
severely for his carelessness, degraded him from his sta-
tion as topman, made him a " sweeper," and stopped his
allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly praised on the
quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a hand-
some present from the captain, besides being promoted to
the station of boatswain's mate at the first opportunity.
This was a bitter potion for the moody and jealous spirit
of Cummin ; and he brooded day and night over his fan-
cied wrongs. — The ship was now rapidly approaching the
" line," and the crew had been for some time anticipating
with great glee the day of fun and license which was in
store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with
practising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-
water sailors, who had never been to the southward of the
equator; and strange and mysterious were the notions
which many of the latter formed of the dreaded " line,"
from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some imagined
that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not
be cut without the permission of the old king of the waves ;
others were gulled into the belief that there was a large
tree growing out of the water, to which the ship was to be
made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were gone through.
But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed
into certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his
report to the captain —

" The sun's up, sir."

" "What is the latitude ?"

" Fifty minutes north, sir."

" Very well— make it twelve o'clock."

" Strike eight bells, quartermaster!" And away went the

old fellow "forward," to striKe the bell, brimful of the in-
telligence he had just overheard; and in two minutes it
was known all over the ship, that, if the breeze held, they
would cross the " line" before morning.

" There it is at last," muttered one of the middies, who
had been for some minutes apparently straining his eyes
through a three-foot " Dollond," and who, knowing he was
within ear-shot of a knot of young cadets, muttered loud
enough to be overheard.

" What is it ?" said a young Irishman.

" The line, to be sure — the equinoctial line — which we
have been so anxiously looking for."

In the meantime, great was the bustle among all the old
hands on board. Paint and tar were in constant requisition.
A deputation had waited some days before upon the lady
passengers, requesting from them some of their cast-off
wearing-apparel, as the crew expected " Mrs Neptune" to
honour them with a visit in a few days, and wished to have
a change of raiment in readiness for her, as she would most
likely be wet and cold with her long cruise upon the water.
A list had been drawn up, ready for presentation to Nep
tune, on his arrival, of all those who were, for the first time,
crossing the line; and those of the passengers who were
unwilling to undergo the ceremonies attendant upon being
made " freemen of the line," had expressed their readiness
to pay the customary exempting tribute, under the salutary
dread" of the razors, of three degrees of comparison, which
were duly brandished before their eyes.

Towards evening, the breeze gradually decreased ; the
clouds were tinged with all the gorgeous hues of a tropical
sunset, assuming every variety of strange and grotesque ap-
pearances ; and the water reflected back their image, if pos-
sible, with increased splendour. As far as the eye could
reach, nothing was visible but the glassy, undulating surface
of the sea, partially rippled by the " cat's paws"""' which
played over it. The ship was gliding slowly over the smooth
expanse of water — her large sails flapping heavily against
the masts, as the sea rose and fell, and her smaller canvas
just swelling in the breeze, and lending its feeble aid to urge
her onwards ; the passengers were taking their evening
lounge on the poop and quarter-deck; while the ship's
" band" were " discoursing eloquent music" for their amuse-
ment ; and the crew were scattered in groups about the
forecastle and waist. Just as the dusk of evening began to
render objects obscure and indistinct, the look-out on the
forecastle called out —

' A light right ahead, sir !"

" Very well, my boy ; keep your eye upon it, and let me
know if we near it."

In a short time, the man exclaimed — " The light is close
aboard of us, sir !" and, at the same moment, a bugle note
was heard, and a glimmering light appeared, which gra-
dually enlarged, throwing a broad, blue, unearthly glare
over the fore part of the ship, till the smallest rope was as
visible as in broad daylight ; while a loud, confused, roaring
noise was heard, and a stentorian voice shouted, apparently
from the sea —

" Ho ! the ship, ahoy !"

'•' Hollo !" replied the officer.

" What ship is that ?"

" The Honourable Company's ship Briton."

" Ah ! my old friend, Cnptain Oakum ! — welcome back
again ! I am too busy to come on board just now ; but
I will pay you a visit to-morrow forenoon. Be sure to have
everything ready for me, for I have a great deal of work on
my hands just now. — Good night !"

" Good night !"

Again the bugle note was heard ; and then the car of his
watery Majesty — looking to vulgar and unpoetic eyes very

" Light, partial airs.

404

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

like a lighted tar-barrel — floated slowly astern, throwing
a flickering glare over the sails, as it passed ; while the
" band" almost knocked down what little of the breeze was
left, with their counter-blast of " Rule Britannnia," which
they puffed away with all their might and main, till the
car of Neptune sank beneath the sea.

" Come forward," said a middie to the cadets near him,
just before the car dropped astern, " come forward, and see
'Neptune's car ; it is worth your while to look at the old boy,
whisking along at the tail of half-a- score of dolphins, with a
poop-light, as big as a full-moon, blazing over his stern ;
you can see him quite plain from the forecastle." And
away they all ran, helter-skelter, towards the forecastle —
the middie knowingly allowing the young aspirants for mi-
litary distinction to get ahead of him, and bolting under
the forecastle, while they ran thundering up the ladder.
They had hardly reached the upper step, before a slight
sprinkling from aloft made them look upwards ; and, while
they were gaping, open-mouthed, in wonder from whence
the rain could proceed, as not a cloud was to be seen, they
had soon reason to think that a water-spout had burst over
their heads ; for, splash, splash, splash — bucketful after
bucketful of water was poured on their devoted heads, from
the " foretop." As soon as they recovered from the mo-
mentary shock and surprise, they made a precipitate re-
treat, amid roars of laughter from all parts of the ship,
in which they were fain to join, to conceal their mortifica-
tion.

All was now quiet for the night; the " band" had played
" God save the King ;" the watch had been called ; and the
captain's steward had announced, " Spirits on the table, sir."

" I had no idea, Captain Oakum," said one of the passen-
gers at the " cuddy" table, " that Neptune was such a dash-
ing blade, with his flourish of trumpets and car of flame.
I shall feel a greater respect for him in future. Does he
always announce his approach in such style ?"

" No ; he sometimes does it by deputy- Last voyage, I
was walking the quarter-deck with some of my passengers,
when we were all startled by seeing a figure, in white, come
flying down out of the maiatop. It fluttered its wings for a
while, and then alighted on the deck, close before us ; touched
its hat, and delivered a letter into my hands ; and then —
whisk ! before we had time to look round us, it was flying
up into the mizzentop. The figure in white was one of the
topmen — intended, I suppose, to represent Mercury ; and
the letter was from the king of the sea, announcing his ap-
proach. The men had rove a couple of ' whips' from the
main and mi zzenmast -heads, and the end of each being made
fast round ' Mr Mercury's' waist, he was lowered from the
one top, and ' run up' into the other."

" Capital ! It must have been rather startling, in the dusk
of evening, to see such a strange sea-bird alight at your
feet."

The next morning, as soon as the decks were washed,
preparations were made for the approaching ceremony. The
jolly-boat was got in from the stern, and secured at the gang-
way, from which a long party-coloured pole projected, an-
nouncing that this was " Neptune's free-and-easy shaving-
shop." All the " scuppers" of the upper deck were stopped,
and the pumps were kept in constant motion, till the lee-side
of the deck was afloat, and the jolly-boat full to the " gun-
nel." An old sail was drawn across the fore part of the
ship's " waist," like the curtain of a theatre, to conceal the
actors in the approaching ceremony, while making their ne-
cessary preparations. There was an air of bustling and
eager mystery among all the old hands, which, to the uniniti-
ated, gave rise to vague and unpleasant feelings of fear. It
was in vain they strained their eyes to penetrate the mys-
teries of the sanctum concealed by the provoking curtain,
from behind which, sundry notes of preparation were heard,
mixed with disjointed ejaculations — such as " A touch more

black, Jem." " How does my scraper sit ?" " "Where's my
nose ?" — and so on. All was bustle and animation ; th«
carpenter's gang converting an old gun-carriage into a tri-
umphal car ; the gunner preparing flags for its decoration ;
his mates busy, with their paint-brushes, bedaubing the tars
who were to act as sea-horses ; and the charioteer preparing
and fitting on Neptune's livery. At length, all was ready
for the reception of the king of the sea.

< On deck, there !" shouted the man at the mast-head.

' Hollo !" replied the officer of the watch*

' A strange sail right ahead, sir."

' Very well, my boy. Can you make out what she is ?"

' She looks small, sir ; not bigger than a boat."

The officer made his report to the captain, who kindly
entered into the spirit of the thing, to gratify the men, and
desired to be informed when the boat was near the ship.

" We are nearing the boat fast, sir." And the captain made
his appearance on deck, to reconnoitre the approaching
stranger.

" Ship, ahoy !" roared a voice ahead ; " lay your main-
topsail to the mast, and give us a rope for the boat."

" Forecastle, there ! — a rope for the boat ! Let go the main-
top bow-line ! Square away the mainyard, after-guard !"
bawled the officer of the deck.

In the meantime, the unfortunates who had never crossed
the line were driven below ; the t: gratings" were laid on
fore and aft, and sentries were stationed at the hatchways,
to prevent escape.

A bugle-note was now heard murdering the " Conquer-
ing Hero," who soon made his appearance in person, over
the bows, and stood for a moment in a graceful attitude on
the night-head, where he really cut quite an imposing figure,
with his robe of sheep-skins, and flowing beard of " oakum,"
and grasping in his extended hand a trident, with a fine fish
on its prongs. A few minutes after he had descended into
the " waist," the screen we before mentioned was withdrawn,
and the procession moved on. First came the ship's musi-
cians, fantastically dressed for the occasion, and playing
" Rule Britannia" with all their might and main ; next
came the triumphal car, surmounted by a canopy decorated
with flags of all nations, under which were seated Neptune,
Amphitrite, or Mrs Nep., as Jack calls her, and a little Tri-
ton ; and, immediately in the rear, followed the suite, consist-
ing of the barber, doctor, clerk, and about a dozen half-naked
and party-coloured demi-gods, who acted as water-bailiffs.
Each of these gentlemen merits a particular description ;
for they were all great men in their way. The doctor wore
an immense floured wig, and an uncommonly long unwhole-
some looking nose, and over all a rusty piece of tarpaulin,
pinched into three corners, to represent a hat ; under his
arm he carried his family medicine-chest, the lid of which
was open, and displayed to view pills and powders of all
shapes, sizes, and colours, in great profusion; and in his
hand he carried a large bottle, labelled, " Neptune's elixir."
The barber carried, slung over his arm, his shaving-box, (a
large tar bucket,) with brushes to correspond ; the pouch
in the front of his apron was filled with little etceteras,
such as boxes of grease for the hair, powder for the teeth,
&c. ; and in his hand he brandished three razors, each
about three feet long — one made of smooth iron hoop, the
next about as genteel as a hand-saw, and the third, meant
for particular favourites, with teeth grinning at each other,
half an inch apart, more or less. The clerk, or scribe, was a
dandy of the first water : he h&d on a small razee hat,
which looked as if it had been forced up on one side by an
immense crop of oakum curls which sprouted most luxuri-
antly from under one of the rims. His whiskers were
pointed to the wind with the greatest nicety ; and from be-
hind his ear peeped the quill, his badge of office ; while a
little inkstand dangled at his button-hole. The tips of his
nose and ears were almost hidden by a most magnificently

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

stiff collar, and his chin nestled in a bed of frill, made to
match the collar of the best foolscap. All these gentlemen
wore long togs*

On came the pageant : Neptune's sheep-skins and tri-
dent looked very majestic ; Amphitrite, a tall high cheek-
boned Scotch " topman," with the assistance of a little red
paint and oakum locks, and arrayed cap-a-pee, in cabin
finery, made a very passable representation of a she
monster; the barber brandished his razors; the scribe para-
ded his list, and every now and then made use of an old fry-
ing-pan, with the bottom knocked out of it, for a quizzing-
glass ; the jack-far*, who acted as sea-horses, pranced as
uncouthly as jack-asses ; and the coachman, seated on the
fore part of the car, and proud of his livery and shoulder-
knots, cracked his whip, d — d his horses for lubbers, and,
singing out to them, " Hard a-port !" contrived to weather
the after hatchway, and then bear up round the " capstan,"
where, with a graceful pull up of the reins, very much like a
a strong pull at the main-brace, and an " Avast there !" to his
obedient cattle, he stopped the car. The captain was stand-
ing under the poop-awning, in readiness to receive his Majesty,
who welcomed him most graciously to his dominions.

" Glad to see you once more, Captain Oakum !" said he ;
" it warms the cockles of my heart to fall in with an old
friend; and my wife here and I both wants comfort of some
kind, after our long morning ride over the water ; the cold
air is apt to give one a cold in the stomach." The doctor
immediately stepped forward with his bottle, and presented
it to his Majesty. " No, no," said he — " none of your doc-
tor's stuff for me; keep that for my children; Captain
Oakum knows my complaint of old."

The captain laughed, and his steward, taking the hint,
produced a bottle containing a different kind of elixir, which
old Neptune seemed to quaff with peculiar relish. A glass
was then offered to Amphitrite, who pretended to reject it,
and tried to blush, in vain.

" Come, come — none of that 'ere humbug, old gal," said
the King ; f' tip it over ; it'll do you good." And away it
went, where many of its fellows had gone before.

" Ah !" said she, smacking her lips with unqueenlike
gusto, <f glorious stuff to drive out a cold !"

The whole of the suit were immediately seized with the
same complaint, and all required the application of the
same remedy.

" I understand, Captain Oakum, you have a good many
of my children on board."

" Yes, a few ; I hope you will treat them kindly ?"

" Oh, leave that to me, sir ; I'll give none on them more
nor they desarves."

He then thrust out his trident to the captain's steward,
with a graceful air, as if he meant to impale him ; but it
was only for the purpose of presenting the fish on its prongs,
as an addition to his honour the captain's dinner.

" I wish it war better ; but we've had a sad sickly season
down below, and all the dolphins and bonitos are on the
doctor's list with influenzie."

During this interview, the men were all standing near
the gangway, armed with buckets of water, wet swabs, &c.,
impatient for the commencement of the fun.

" But I must wish you good morning, Captain Oakum ;
I have no time to lose. I have two or three other ships to
board this morning."

" Good morning !"

The band struck up " Off she goes" — ' ' Carry on, you lub-
bers!" said the coachman — crack went the whip — off pranced
the horses — and away whirled the car, which no sooner
approached the gangway, than the procession was greeted
with torrents of water, and his " godship" was half
smothered in his own element. After gasping for breath,

* Coats.

I and shaking off the superfluous moisture, Neptune and the
fair Amphitrite took their station on " the booms," to super-
intend the operations of the day. The clerk handed to his
Majesty a list of his new subjects, who were recommended
to his peculiar attention.

" Richard Goldie is the first on the list," said Neptune ;
" send him up !" And away scampered the Tritons, (or con-
stables,) who were naked to the waist, the upper parts of
their bodies being hideously painted, fantastic-looking caps
on their heads, and short painted staves in their hands.
The main-hatch " grating" was lifted, and up came our
friend Richard, blindfolded, between two constables, laugh-
ing and joking with his captors as he came along. As
soon as he made his appearance, Neptune exclaimed —

" Who have we got here ? I ought to know the cut of
that younker's jib. Ay, I'm blowed if it isn't the same that
was cruising about the other day after a drowning shipmate.
One of the right sort that. Just put my mark upon him—-
give him a touch of the tar brush, and let him go."

Almost untouched, Richard was allowed to escape forward,
where he immediately equipped himself with a wet " swab,"
and prepared to follow the example of those around him.

" Edward Cummin ! Bring Edward Cummin !"

And Cummin made his appearance, escorted as Goldie
had been, with a face almost as white as the handkerchief
that blinded his eyes, and shivering with anticipation.
The attendant Tritons seated him on the edge of the jolly-
boat at the gangway ; and the barber, turning to Neptune,
and holding up his three razors, said —

" Please your Honour, which ?"

" Let us hear first what he has to say for himself," said
Neptune.

" Where do you come from ?"

" From Scot oo ! oo!" said the poor fellow, as the

barber thrust a well- filled tar-brush into his mouth.

" How long is it since you left it ?"

But Cummin had gained experience ; he set his teeth,
pressed his lips together, and sat, a ludicrous picture of fear,
mixed with desperate resolution.

" A close Scot, I see," said Neptune ; " give him some
soap, to soften \\\sjizzog, and teach him to open his mouth.
Shave him clean."

The barber lathered his victim's cheeks with tar, which
he dabbed on without much regard for his feelings ; while
the Tritons, with their hands in his hair, tugged his head
about in the proper direction. The operation was per-
formed with the " favourite's" razor, which left the furrows
of itsjlne edge upon his cheeks. The doctor was standing
by with his vial of tar-water, and his box of indescribable
pills, ready to take advantage of every involuntary gasp of
the poor patient. At last, after daubing his hair with
rancid grease, " to make it grow," the bandage was suddenly
taken from his eyes, and he was thrown backward into the
boat, and left floundering among the tarry water, till some
charitable hand dragged him out. Half drowned and
half blinded, Cummins staggered forwards, blessing his stars
that his torments were over ; but, alas ! he soon found that
he had escaped from the fangs of the torturing few, only to
encounter the tender mercies of the vindictive many.
Groans and hisses from all quarters gave token of the dis-
like in which ,he was held — bucketful* of water were
dashed in his face, and a rope drawn suddenly across the
deck tripped up his feet, and he floundered on the deck at
the mercy of his tormentors, who, whenever he attempted
to rise, dashed torrents of water upon him, and half buried
him in wet "swabs." Mad with rage and mortification,
wearied and exhausted, Cummin at last reached the fore-
castle, where he sat down for a while, to recover breath and
strength.

" Come, Cummin, man," shouted Goldie to him—" como
an' join the sport "

406

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

There was something in Goldie's joyous and laughing
tone which jarred upon Cummin's excited feelings — it
seemed to him like an insult, that his companion should be
so merry and happy, while he was sitting, like an evil
spirit, scowling on the scene of mirth before him. He
made no reply to Goldie, but muttered to himself — " Laugh
on, my young cock of the walk ; you shall pay dearly for
your fun." From that day, Cummin became an altered
man in manner : he no longer attempted to conceal his
dislike to Goldie, but on all occasions did his utmost to
thwart and annoy him. He used to pace up and down the
deck, in gloomy silence, while the rest of the crew were
sleeping around him ; and dark and deadly were the
thoughts that crowded through his brain. He felt that he
was disliked and avoided by all his companions, and, attri-
buting their estrangement to the arts and influence of Gol-
die, over and over again did he vow bitter revenge against
him. But how was his revenge to be gratified ? There was
the rub. He was too much of a coward to attack him
openly, and feared to attempt any secret mischief, as he
knew that he would be immediately suspected as the author
of it ; for his hatred to Goldie had, by this time, been re-
marked throughout the ship, where, it was equally obvious,
Goldie had no other enemy. But; while he is meditating
mischief, we must go on with our story.

When the Briton arrived in Madras Roads, several ves-
sels were lying at anchor there ; and one of them, a small
merchantman, had her foretopsail loose, and '* blue-peter"
flying. This was the Columbine, a Liverpool ship, which
was expected to sail that night about twelve o'clock. As
Cummin stood on the forecastle in the evening, after the
hammocks were piped down, looking gloomily at that ves-
sel, his countenance suddenly brightened up. He rubbed
his hands together, and laughed aloud ; then checking him-
self, and looking cautiously round, to see whether any one
was near him, he dived below. At midnight, the Colum-
bine " got under way," and stood to sea.

Next morning, while washing decks, the officer of the
deck called out — 'f Midshipman ! I don't see Cummin ; send
him up."

" Cummin ! — Richard Cummin !" was echoed round the
decks ; but no Richard Cummin appeared.

The hands were called out to muster ; Cummin did not
answer to his name. Strict search was made for him, but
he was nowhere to be found. The first and most natural
conclusion was, that he had deserted to the Columbine ;
but it was too late now to ascertain. But that belief was a
good deal shaken, when one of the men, who happened to
have been awake at eleven o'clock the night before, said
that he had heard a loud splash in the water, and ran im-
mediately to the "port" to look out; but all was silent
again ; and, if it was, as he now supposed, Cummin,
he must have gone down immediately. He did not give
the alarm at the time, for he was half asleep when
he heard the noise, and thought he must have been
mistaken. While the man was giving this evidence on
the quarter-deck, up came Goldie with a piece of pa-
per, which he had found on the pillow of his ham-
mock, on which were scrawled the following words: —

Richie, I must put an end to this life of misery and
mortification ; when I am gone, perhaps you will think
more kindly of me. I was wicked enough to talk of re-
- leave my chest and all my traps to you. Be
kind to my poor mother, for the sake of your unhappy ship-
mate, t was now evident to all, that the poor fellow,
whose dejection and reserve had been long noticed, had
committed suicide; and, much as he was disliked, his dis-
appearance cast a gloom over the ship's company for some
days. Goldie grieved sincerely for him, now that he was
gone— all his violence, all his tempers were forgotten, and
Kichard only thought of hinj asf the friend of his boyhood

and the companion of his early days ; and ne was much
affected by the kindly feeling manifested in his note.

We must now transport ourselves, for a while, on board
the Columbine, and follow Edward Cummin and his for-
tunes. On the night of the Briton's arrival in Madras
Roads, Cummin, who was a capital swimmer, dropped un-
perceived under the bows of the Columbine, about an houi
before she got " under way," and climbed into the " head"
by a rope that was hanging overboard. He passed the look-
out on the forecastle ; but the man, being half asleep, took
him for one of the ship's company. He then dived down
the main hatchway, and concealed himself in the " heart'
of one of the cable tiers, where he remained undiscovered
during the day. Next night, when all was quiet, he stole
up on the gun-deck, and was in the act of helping himself
out of one of the bread-bags there, when a man of the mess,
who happened to be awake, seized him as a thief, and
dragged him on the upper-deck.

" Bring a light, quartermaster !" said the mate ; " let us
see who this skulking thief is ! — Hollo !" continued he,
starting back with surprise — "who the deuce have we got
here ? Where did you spring from ?"

" I came up from the cable tier^ to get something to eat,
sir ; I was very hungry."

" Out of the cable tier ! But how did you get into the
cable tier ?"
u I swam"

" Swam into the cable tier ! You must be a clever fellow !
Come, none of your tricks upon travellers — tell the truth at
once."

" I was going to tell you when you stopped me, sir. I
am a l Briton.' "

" Well, what has that to do with it ?"
" Why, sir, I was tired of being one."
" Tired of being a Briton, and swam into the cable tier !
What do you mean ?"

" Why, sir, that I was one of the crew of the Briton, the
Indiaman that lay next you in the Roads, and I cut and
run from her, and got on board of you, just before you got
under way."

" Here's a pretty business ! — but we must make the best
of a bad bargain ; — I suppose you're one of the Company's
hard ones."

The Columbine was short-handed, having lost several
men at Madras, and the captain, though he blustered a
little when he first heard the story, was in his heart pleased
to have got such an unexpected addition to his crew ; and,
after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was
rated able-seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's
arrival at Liverpool, Cummin immediately set off home
wards, and made his appearance at Kelton again, about
eight months after he had left it, much to the surprise of
his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his suf-
ferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of
poor Goldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to
cholera. After the death of his friend, driven to despera-
tion by the ill usage he was exposed to, he determined to
run from his ship on the first opportunity, and had, accord-
ingly, deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all occa-
sions, in the warmest terms, of Goldie's great kindness to
him, and expressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad
news was a death-blow to the poor old Goldies, who never
recovered from the effects of it, and who, broken-hearted
and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks afterwards, to
an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and
sincerely for Richard Goldie ; she had always liked him as
an agreeable companion, and respected him as an amiable
and steady character ; and, though, at first, she had given
the preference to the plausible Cummin, yet, before they
parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon
tier better sense that she had begun to experience that

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

407

kind of partiality towards him which might, in time, have
ripened into a warmer feeling. With the quick eye of
jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this change in her
feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself. He
had never really loved her ; his object in appearing to do so,
had been to annoy Goldie ; but the wound thus given to
his vanity had rankled in his heart, to the exclusion of
every other feeling, but that of a wish to punish her for her
defection.

He now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was
doubly assiduous in his attentions towards him. He had
become, apparently, quite an altered character — that is, he
had become a more finished hypocrite ; he had learned to
calm his temper and to smooth his brow, and appeared, on
all occasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man
began to feel the kindest regard towards him ; and pointed
him out to his daughter's attention as a pattern for the
young men around, and one who would make a steady and
respectable husband. There was, at first, however, a change-
ableness in his manner towards Ellen, that puzzled and
surprised her : at times, he was almost servilely obsequious
in his attentions towards her ; at others, when he thought
himself unobserved, she was startled by the malevolent
expression of his countenance, and by the derisive smile
that played round his lips as he gazed upon her. Cummin
noticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and
became more guarded in his behaviour ; he redoubled his
attentions, and never allowed a shade of unpleasant feeling
to be visible on his brow. His perseverance had the de-
sired effect of reviving her old partiality, and, in an evil
hour, she consented to become his wife. The morning
after their wedding he had disappeared, and had never
since been heard of. A deserted bride, she was left in all
the misery of uncertainty respecting his fate or his inten-
tions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she could
impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had
treated her from the moment of their union.

But we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. No-
thing particular occurred during the remainder of the voyage
of the Briton, until their arrival in China, where, in
consequence of a dispute with the authorities, the ships
were detained for several months, and a year elapsed before
they returned to England. As soon as he had received
his pay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he
proceeded by steam to Annan. When his foot was fairly
planted on the soil of Dumfriesshire, and his face was
turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the exube-
rance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved
his hat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which
could only be excused in a young sailor just let loose ; and
which, had they been witnessed by others of cooler tem-
perament, would, have been looked upon as the freaks of a
madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his
parents, and of bonny Ellen Grey ; and with thoughts of
her' came a sad recollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of
flattering cotion that the latter had had good cause for his
jealousy on the night of their quarrel, when Ellen, every
feature of whose face and every note of whose voice were
vividly present to his memory, smiled so SAveetly upon him,
and bid him take care of himself " for a' our sakes."

It was late in the evening when he approached Kelton,
on his way homewards ; and he resolved to give the Greys
a call as he went past. At length he saw the well-known
cottage, and a flush came over fris brow when he recognised
Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to greet
her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated,
he was surprised and mortified to see her start up with a
faint scream, and avert her eyes with looks of horror and alarm .

" Ellen !" exclaimed he — " hae ye forgotten me ? What
gars ye turn awa yer head, as though ye'd seen a bogle ?
Am I sae changed that ye dinna ken yer auld freend,

Richie Goldie?" And he advanced to take her hand.
The girl started from his touch with a cold shudder, and
muttered —

" Is it no gane yet ?"

" What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen ; there's nought here
but yersel an' me ? Can ye no speak to me : it sets ye ill
to turn the cauld shouther to an auld freen ?"

The girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over
her shoulder, and exclaimed, with a start of joy —

" Heth ! I believe it's himsel !"

lt Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen ?"

" For yer wraith, Richie ; they tell't me ye were dead ?"

'' And wha tell't ye sic a lee ?"

" He tell't me sae himsel."

"And wha was he ?"

" Ned Cummin : he said he saw ye dee."

" Ned Cummin ! Why the lassie's head's in a creel.
Ned drowned himgel, puir cliiel ! in Madras Roads ; and
mony a sair thocht has it gien me that we war unfreens
when we parted."

" Weel, Richie, a' I ken is that it's Gude's truth that
Ned Cummin tell't me ye were dead — an' I believed him."
And the tears gushed from her eyes as she said so. " But
come ben the hoose, and see my faither."

Old Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at
the apparition, as he thought it, of Richard Goldie ; for they
both were infected with the superstition of the country,
and firmly believed in the doctrine of wraiths, bogles, and
other supernatural appearances.

" An', noo," said the old man, " that we ken that ye're
yersel an' no yer wraith, sit doon an' tell . us a' that's
happened ye sin' ye gaed awa."

"I hae nae time 'enow," said Richard; "I maun awa
hame ; for I haena seen my ain fouk yet — mair's the shame
but I'll come back the morn's morn, an' gie ye my cracks.

' ' But, Richie, my man, hae ye no heard — d'ye no ken,'
said the old man, hesitatingly.

" What's happened ?" cried Goldie, alarmed, " Are they
no a' weel at hame ?"

" They heard ye were dead, Richie ; an' ye ken, they
aye said that ye war the life o' their hearts — they were nevei
like the same folk again ; the grass o' Caerlav'rock kirk-
yard is green abune their heads."

Goldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing
intelligence; he had loved his parents with the fondest
affection, and the hope of cheering and supporting them in
their declining years had been the mainspring of his activity
and industry. He covered his face with his hands, and
remained for some moments silent; and, at last, with a
sudden outburst of grief, exclaimed—

" Gane ! baith gane ! an' I am left alane, without a leevin
freen, or a roof to shelter me !"

" Ye'se no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore.
Come, bide whar ye are ; ye'll ay be welcome for the sake
o' langsyne. I hae aften wished, and I ance thocht that
oor Ellen an' you micht come thegither ; but it wasna to be."

"An" what for can it no be?" said Richie, forgetting his
recent loss for the moment, and looking at Ellen. But she
burst into tears, and left the room.

Goldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it ;
and the old man, in explanation, told him the story we
have already related, and expressed his surprise at Cummin's
conduct, and his wonder as to what could be his motive for
such deception.

" What for did he tell us ye were dead, Ritchie ?"

" I see it a' noo," said Richard : " when I struck him to
the ground, he swore he would hae revenge — an' sair re-
venge has he taen. My puir faither an' mither ! What
had they dune ?" And the poor fellow hung down his head
and sobbed aloud.

" But what could hae garr'd him leave oor Ellen ?"

408

TALES OF THE BORDEKS.

thocht

" Oh, lie kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she
...ocht mair o' me than o' himsel ; an' he just married her, to
spite me, and to be revenged upon her for slighting him at
first. But there's a time for a' things ; if I get a grip on
him, he's repent it."

It was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the
disappointment of all his fondest hopes ; and when the first
violence of his grief was past, the springiness and buoyancy
of his disposition seemed to have left him entirely. He
became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely ever
seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his
usual occupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if
it mattered not to him how they were performed, and as if
they were to him a mere mechanical and tiresome duty.
Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever ; but she was now,
though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a
coldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still
reigned but too powerfully in his breast. He was reserved,
because he felt a kind of painful pleasure in brooding in
silence over his sorrows. In thinking of his poor parents, and
of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife, but for
another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the
cold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery.
He would fain have left a place which, much as he loved it,
only kept awake so many painful recollections, had he not
been withheld from doing so by a strong feeling of gratitude
to old Grey, who was now unable to work for his own sub-
sistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his
daily support. Ellen, herself, who was much liked in the
neighbourhood, and whose story had excited much interest
among the neighbouring gentry, obtained a good deal of
employment as a dress-maker, which enabled her not only
to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure
many luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have
obtained. At length, after lingering for some months in a
state of gradual decay, the old man died, and Goldie, after
having seen Ellen comfortably settled in a neighbouring
family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went to
Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been
heard of Cummin, although nearly two years had elapsed
since his disappearance ; and Goldie, who could not forget
his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a state of most un-
pleasant uncertainty.

Richard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was
walking one day on the Clarence Dock as some carts were
being unloaded. The horse in one of them took fright
at some passing object, and dashed off at full speed. A
sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and
attempted to stop it ; but was instantly knocked down with
great violence, and the wheel of the cart passed over his
head. Richard, who was close to the spot, hastened to his
assistance ; and was horrified at the sight that met his eyes.
The poor fellow was senseless ; his arm appeared to be
broken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered
with gore and dust. Richard raised his head on a log of
wood lying near, loosened his collar, and, a crowd instantly
collecting, requested some of them to run for the nearest
doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the by-
standers, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses
near, where he lay, for some time, panting and groaning ;
but apparently quite insensible.

After they had all gone, the wounded man turned to
Richard, and, looking in his face, gave a heavy sigh.

" Are ye in much pain ?" said Goldie.

"Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie,"
replied the man, in feeble and imperfect accents. " Do you
not know me ?"

" Mercifu powers !" exclaimed Richie ; " sure it canna be
Ned Cummin ?"

" It is Edward Cummin, Richie, your fals'e friend, your
once bitter enemy, that lies bruised, and Crushed, asd

broken-spirited before you. Can you forgive me ? — can
you forgive a dying and a penitent man ?"

" Ned Cummin," said Richard, " ye hae dune me grievous
wrang ; an' I'll no deny that, if I had met ye in health and
strength, our meetin wadna been a peaceable ane ; but the
hand o' heaven has stricken ye sair ; an' — yes ! — I forgie ye
wi' a' my heart ; an', oh ! may ye meet wi' forgiveness where
it'll do ye mair guid !"

" Thanks, dear Richie ! — this is more than I deserved.
Now I shall die happy."

" Ye maunna speak ony mair Ned ; ye heard what the
doctor said."

" But I must speak, Richie, while time is allowed me.
You know well, and, if you don't, I feel that I cannot live
long. Oh, that a few years were allowed me, to prove my
repentance sincere ! But I feel that is not to be. Death is
before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different light
now. You were always better than me : you were frank,
and open, and confiding ; I was a proud, revengeful hypo-
crite ; and I hated you because I always felt myself to be
one when you were near me. When you struck me to the
earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me ; but
it was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At
last, I thought of Ellen Grey ; I knew you loved her, and I
fancied she had deserted me for you ; I determined to be
revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and then de
serted her ; and, with a refinement in cruelty, I left her in
her ignorance, that you yourself might prove to her how
basely she had been deceived. Hugging myself iu the suc-
ces of my wicked sehemes, I went on board a man-of-war,
from which I was discharged a few weeks ago. But the
terrors of an accusing conscience went with me, and I was
miserable ; and I had resolved to return homewards, when
the accident occurred which has brought us together.
Richard, I am dying ! Cruel and revengeful as I have
been, can you still forgive me ?"

"I do, 1 do; from my heart," sobbed Richard, greatly affected.

" Bless you for saying so ! — Now leave me to my own
thoughts, that I may endeavour to make my peace with
heaven."

Next morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was
with him in his last moments, and was gratified by the convic-
tion that he departed in a happy frame of mind. After having
attended the remains to their last home, he gave up his
intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward.
Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her
the sad news. At firstshe was much shocked and affected ; but
her affection for Cummin had been considerably shaken by
his contemptuous indifference and long absence ; and when
she heard what were his motives for deceiving and deserting
her, she had difficulty in suppressing her indignation.
Richard Goldie got a berth onboard one of the small coasting
sloops, and, by his steadiness and activity, so recommended
himself to the owners, that he was made master of her, the
former one being shifted into a new vessel. His love for
Ellen was as strong as ever, and now all obstacles to their
union having been removed, they were soon afterwards wed-
ded— a union very different from the former marriage into
which Ellen had been betrayed.

WILSON'S

, SFratrtttonarg, anlr

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

HUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK.

IT has been asserted by at least one historian, that it has
been observed, that the inhabitants of towns which have un-
dergone a cruel siege, and experienced all the horrors of storm
and pillage, have retained for ages the traces of the effects
of their sufferings, in a detestation of war, indications of
pusillanimity, and decline of trade. If there be any truth
in this observation, -what caitiffs must the inhabitants of
Berwick be ! No town in the world has been so often ex-
posed to the " ills that wait on the red chariot of war ;"
for Picts, Romans, Danes, Saxons, English, and Scotch
have, in their turn, wasted their rage and their strength
upon her broken ribs. Her boasted " barre," (barrier,) from
which her name, Barrewick, is derived, has never been able
to save her effectually, either from her enemies of land or
water. From the reign of Osbert, the king of Northum-
berland, down to the time when Lord Sidmouth saw
treason in her big guns, she has been devoted to the harpies
of foreign and intestine war and discord. Yet who shall
say, that the hearts or spirits of the inhabitants of this
extraordinary town lost either blood or buoyancy from their
misfortunes ? No sooner were her bulwarks raised than
they appeared renascent ; the inhabitants defended the new
fortifications with a spirit that received a salient power
from the depression produced by the demolition of the old ;
and her ships, that one day were shattered by engines of
war, sailed in a state of repair with the next fair wind, to
fetch from distant ports articles of merchandise, not soldom
for those who were fighting or had fought against her
liberties. Such was Berwick ; and her sons of to-day inherit
too much of the nobility and generosity of her old children,
to find fault with us for telling them a tale which, while
it exhibits some shades of the warlike spirit of their an-
cestors, shews also that war and citizen warriors have their
foibles, and are not always exempt from the harmless laugh
that does the heart more good than the touch of an old
spear.

The Lord Hume of the latter period of the seventeenth
century, had a natural son, Patrick, an arch rogue, in-
heriting the fire of the blood of the Humes, along with that
which burnt in the black eyes of the gipsies of Yetholm.
He was brought up by his father ; and, true to the principles
of his education, would acknowledge no patrons of the
heart, save the three ruling powers of love, laughter, and
war — Cupid, Momus, and Mars — a trio chosen from all
the gods, (the remainder being sent to Hades,) as being
alone worthy of the worship of a gentleman. How Patrick
got acquainted, and, far less, how he got in love with the
Mayor of Berwick's daughter, Isabella, we cannot say, nor
need antiquarians try to discover ; for where there was a
Southron to be slain or a lady to be won, Patrick Hume
cared no more for bar, buttress, battlement, fire, or water,
than did Jove for his own thunder cloud, under the shade
of which he courted the daughter of Inachus. Letting
alone the recondite subject of "love's beginning," we shall
tread safer ground in stating, that the affection had been
very materially increased on both sides by the walls of
Berwick ; for, although Patrick was a greater despiser of for-
156. VOL. III.

tifications, he had felt, in the affair of his love for Isabella, the
fair daughter of the Mayor of Berwick, that there is no
getting a damsel through a loop hole, though there might be
poured as much sentimental and pathetic speech and sigh-
breath through the invidious opening, as ever passed through
the free air that fills the breeze under the trysting thorn.

What we have now said requires the explanation, that at
the period of our story, the town of Berwick belonged to
the English; and the Mayor, being himself either an English-
man, or connected by strong ties of relationship with the English,
had a strong antipathy towards the Scottish Border raiders,
whom he denominated as gentlemen-robbers, headed by the
noble robber Plume. But, above all, he hated Young
Patrick — into whose veins, he said, there had been poured
the distilled raid-venom and love-poison of all the gentle-
men-scaumers that ever infested the Borders. The origin
of this hatred had some connection with an affair of the
Newmilne, belonging to Berwick ; the dam-dike of which,
Patrick alleged, prevented the salmon from getting up the
river, and hence destroyed all his angling sport, as well as
that of all the noblemen and gentlemen that resorted to the
river for the purpose of practising the " gentle art." He
had therefore threatened to pull it down, to let up the fish ;
and sounded his threat in the ears of the indignant Mayor,
in terms that were, peradventure, made stronger and bitterer
by the thought that dikes and walls were his greatest bane
upon earth : by the walls of Berwick the Mayor kept from
his arms the fair Isabella, and by the dam-dike of New-
milne the same Mayor deprived him of the pleasure of
angling. Was such power on the part of a Mayor to be borne
by the high-spirited youth who had been trained to look
upon mason-work as a mere stimulant to love or war — a
thing that raised the value of what it enclosed by the opposi-
tion it offered to the young blood that raged for entrance ?
The youth thought not. He vowed that he would neither
lose his Isabella nor his salmon ; and, as fate would have it,
the old Mayor had heard the vow, and vowed also that
young Patrick should lose both.

Having fished one day to no purpose, in consequence of
the obstruction of " that most accursed of all dam-dikes, the
Newmilne dike," as Patrick styled it, he threw down his
rod, and lay down upon the bank of the river, to wait the
hour when the moon should summon and lighten him to the
loop-hole in the other of his hated obstructions, the walla
of Berwick — where that evening he expected to meet his
beloved Isabella, and commune with her in the eloquent
language of their mutual passion. The bright luminary
burst in the midst of his reveries from behind an autumn
cloud, and flashed a long silver beam upon the rolling waters.
He started to his feet.

" It is beyond my time," he said, self-accusingly. " My
Isabella is on Berwick Wall, and I am still lingering here by
the banks of the river, three miles from where my love and
honour require me to be. The loiterer in love is ^a laggard
in war ; and shame on the Hume who is either ! "

In a short time the young Hume was standing beneath a
buttress of the old walls of the town, looking earnestly
through a small opening, in which he expected to see the
face of the fair daughter of the Mayor.

" Art there at last, love ?" said he, in a soft voice, as ho

410

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

saw, with palpitating heart, the pretty but arch face of the
bewitching heiress of all the wealth of the old burgher lord
peering through the aperture. " What, in the name of him
who got his wings in the lap of Yenus, and useth them to
this hour as cleverly as doth our pretty messenger of
Spring, hath kept thee, wench ?"

" Ha ! ha ! hush ! hush, man !" responded she, whose
spirit equalled that of the boldest Hume that ever headed
a raid. " Thou'rt the laggard. I've waited for thee an
hour, until I've sighed this little love-bole into an oven-heat,
waiting thee, thou lover of broken troth ! Some gipsy
queen in Haugh of the Tweed hath wooed thee out of thy
affection for thy Isabel ; and now thou askest what hath
kept me. Ha ! ha ! Good — for a Hume."

" The moon cheated me, and went skulking under a
cloud," responded Hume.

" And the cloud threw thy love in the shade," added
quickly the gay girl. " Methought love kept his own dial,
and was independent of sun or moon. What if a rebel
vapour cometh over the queen of heaven that night thou
art to make me free ? My hope of liberty, I fancy, would
be clouded ; and I would be remitted again to the care of
Captain Wallace, who keepeth the town and the Mayor's
daughter from the spoiling arms of the robber Humes."

"Ha ! ha !" replied he — ' ' thy father wanteth not a Mayor's
wits, Isabella, in offering thee as a prize to the Governor of
the town. Excellent device, i'faith ! The old burgher lord
knew he could not keep thee, mad-cap wench as thou art,
from a hated Hume's arms, unless he gave the Captain an
interest as a lover in guarding thee, like a piece of the old
wall of Berwick."

" And therein thou'rt well complimented," replied she ;
" for my father could not get, in all Berwick, a man that
could keep me from thee, but he who guardeth town, and
Mayor, and maiden together. Since the Governor, as a
lover, got charge of me, I am more firmly caged than ever
was the old countess, who was so long confined in the
grated wing-cage of the old castle. When art thou to free
me from the Governor's love and surveillance, good Patrick ?
If what I have now to tell thee hath no power to quicken thy
wits and nerve thine arm, thou art indeed thyself no better
than one of those stones, to which, in thy wit, thou hast
likened me. Know'st that a day is fixed for Captain Wal-
lace being my legal governor ?"

'•' Ha !" cried Hume, in agitation. " This soundeth dif-
ferently from the playful hammer of thy wit, Bell. What
day is fixed ? Th'ou hast fired me with high purposes."

" How high tower they ?" cried the maiden, laughing.
" Do they reach thy former threat, to pull down the New-
milne dam-dike, and let up the salmon, in revenge for the
letting down of the Mayor's daughter?"

" Another time for thy wit, Bell," replied Patrick, in a
more serious tone. " Thou hast, put to flight my spirits.
The grey owl meditation is flapping his dingy wing over my
heart. The time — the time — when is the day ?"

" This day se'ennight," answered Isabel. " Hush ! hush !
here cometh the Governor, blowing like a Tweedmouth
grampus, fresh from the German Sea, in full run after a
lady-fish of the queen of rivers."

And now Hume heard the hoarse voice of the redoubted
Governor, Captain Wallace — that fat overgrown belly gerent
son of Mars, so famous, in his day, for vaunting of feats of
arms, at Bothwell, (where he never was,) over the Mayor's
wine, and in presence of his fair daughter, whom he thus
courted after the manner of the noble Moor, with a slight
difference as to the truth of his feats scarce worth mention-
ing. It appeared to Hume, as he listened, that Wallace,
and the Mayor, who was with him, had sallied out, after the
fourth bottle, in search of Isabel — a suspicion verified by
the speech of the warlike Captain.

<f Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," said the Governor, in a

voice that reverberated among the walls, and fell distinctly
on Hume's ear, u that she would be about the fortifications ?
Ha ! — anything appertaining to war delighteth the fair crea-
ture as much as it did that rare author, Will Shakspeare's
Desdemona. If I had been as black as the Moor — ay, or as
the devil himself — my prowess at Bothwell would have given
this person of mine, albeit somewhat enlarged, the properties
of beauty in the eyes of noble-spirited women — so much do
our bodies borrow from the qualities of our souls."

" Where is she ?" rejoined the Mayor. " I like not that
love of the fortifications. It is the outside of the walls she
loves. See, she flies, conscience-smitten. I like not this,
my noble Captain — see, there is Patrick Hume beyond the
wall. If thou hast courage, drive thy pike through that
loop, and, peradventure, ye may blind a Hume for life."

" I like to strike a man fair — body to body — as we did
on the Bridge of Bothwell," responded the Captain. " Ha !
ha ! Give me the loop-hole of a good bilbo-thrust, out of
which the soul wings its flight in a comfortable manner.
Nevertheless, to please my noble friend the Mayor, and to
get quit of a rival, I may" (lowering his voice to a whisper)
" as well kill him in the way thou hast propounded ; but I
assure thee, upon my honour, I would much rather have
the fellow before me, without the intervention of these
plaguy walls, that come thus in the way and march of one's
valour. There goes !"

On looking up, Hume saw the Captain's bilbo thrusting
manfully through the night air, as if it would pierce the
night gnomes and spirits that love to hang over old battle-,
ments. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it round
his hand, and seizing the point of the sword, gave it a jerk,
which (and the consequent terror) disengaged it from the
hand of the pot-valiant hero of Bothwell. A shout of fear
was heard from within.

" Stop ! stop ! mine good Mr Mayor !" cried the Captain
to the Mayor, who had begun to fly ; "I do not see, as yet
any very great, that is, serious cause of apprehension ; but,
I forget, thou wert not at Bothwell. By my honour, I've
done for him ! He hath carried off my sword in his body.
Was it Patrick Hume, saidst thou ? Then is he dead as
my grandmother, and no more shall he follow after my be-
trothed, or threaten thee with the downfall of the Newmilne
dam-dike. All I sorrow for is my good sword, which,
but for that accursed loop, I might have redrawn from his
vile carcase, and thus saved my property at the same time
that I gave the carrion crows of old Berwick a dinner."

" Ah ! but he's a devil that Hume," responded the
Mayor. " Long has he hounded after my daughter Bell ;
and, though it is now likely near an end with him, I should
not like to come in the way of the dying tiger. Let us
home."

The sound of the retreating warriors brought back Hum&
to the loop-hole, to see if Isabel was still there, to whom he
was anxious to propose a plan, whereby he might (with the
gay romp's most cheerful good-will and hearty co-operation)
carry her off from the contaminating embrace of the pot-
valiant Governor, with whom she was to be wed on that day
se'ennight. He waited a long time, but no Isabel came.
He suspected that the Mayor, after having caught her speak-
ing to him, (Hume,) his most inveterate foe, would, as he
had often done before, lock her up, and set the noble Cap-
tain as a guard upon his lady-love. Cursing his unlucky
fate, that brought them out to interrupt his converse with
the mistress of his heart, and prevent the arrangement of an
elopement, he bent the Captain's bilbo hilt to point, till it
rebounded with a loud twang, and stepping away up the
Tweed, fell into a deep meditation as to the manner by
which he should secure Isabel. As he went along, his eye
fell upon that source of so much contention between the
men of Berwick and the border barons, the dam-dike of the
Newmilne, and against which the Lord Hume, as well as

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

411

himself and many of the neighbouring knights and lairds,
had vowed destruction. A thought flashed across his mind,
and his eye sparklid. in the moon-beam, as brightly as did
the Captain's sword, which he still held in his hand.

" I have uib it 1" lie cried, as he clapped his hand on his
limb, and the sound echoed back from the mill-walls. " For
spearing a salmon or a Southron, dissolving that old foolish
tenure between a proprietor and his cattle, or cutting the tie
of- forced duty between a rich old Mayor and his daughter,
where shall the bastard of Hume be equalled on the Bor-
ders ? My fair Bell, thou wouldst spring with the elasticity
of this bent blade, and dance like these moon-beams in the
Tweed, if thou wert in the knowledge of this thought that
now tickles the wild fancy of thy lover, whom thou equallest
in all that belongest to the gay heart and the bounding
spirit."

Occupied with these thoughts, Patrick went home to the
castle of the Humes ; and, next morning, he bent his way to
Foulden, where he sought Lord Ross's bailie, James Sin-
clair, a man who had a very hearty spite against the obstruc-
tion to the passage of the Tweed salmon. With him he
communed for a considerable time, and thereafter he pro-
ceeded to Paxton and to others of the gentlemen in the
vicinity. The subject of these interviews will perhaps best
be explained by the following placard, which appeared in
various parts of Berwick in two days thereafter : —

" On Friday last, the tenant of Newmilne, belonging to
the toun of Baricke, gave information to our honourable
Mayor, who has communicated the same to our gallant Go-
vernor, Captain Wallace, that the Lord Hume and other the
Scotch gentlemen, our neighbours, do, on Monday next, in-
tend to be at the Newmilne aforesaid, by tenn of the clock
of the morninge ; and that they had summoned their tenants
to be then and there present, alsoe, to assist in the breaking
downe and demolishing the dam of the said Newmilne ;
and that the Lord Ross his bailiffe of Foulden had given
out in speeches, that he was desired to summon the said
Lord Ross, his tenants, and inhabitants of Foulden bar-
ronry, to be then and there aiding and assisting them, alsoe,
for better effecting the same : Whereupon, it is necessary,
that, at a ringing of a belle, our tounsmen, headed by our
Mayor, and directed by the warlike genius of Captain
Wallace, should proceed to the said Newmilne, and give
battle in defence of the said dike, which is indispensable
to the existence of the toun's property. God save the
Mayor !"

The effect produced by this proclamation was rapid and
stirring. The English, at that period, had contrived to raise
a strong prejudice in the minds of the Berwick burghers
against the Border Scots ; and the intelligence that the
daring robbers intended to demolish their property, inflamec
them to the high point of resolution to fight under their
valorous Captain, while one stone of the dike remained on
another, and one drop of blood was left in their bodies
Hume, who had a greater part in the occasion of these pre-
parations than had been made apparent, got secret intelli-
gence of all that was going on within the town ; but none
of his vigils at the loop-hole were rewarded with a sight o:
his spirited Isabel, who, he understood, had been confined in
her father's house since the night on which she had been
discovered upon the wall. Meanwhile, the preparations for
the defence of the town's property proceeded ; and, on the
Monday morning, a bell, whose loud tongue spoke " war's
alarums," sounded over town and walls, spreading fear among
the timid, and rousing in the noble breasts of the va-
lorous proud and swelling resolutions to give battle to the
Border robbers, in the style of their ancestors. Ever since
the first announcement, they had been drilled by the Cap
tain, whose loud command of voice, proud bearing, ben
back, (bent in self-defence against the counterpoise of hi
Btomach,) and martial strut, filled them with great awe o

tiis power, and great confidence in his abilities. Many hun-
dred people, " on horse and foote," (we use the language of
our old chronicle,) " were gathered together, considerably
aramed with swordes, pistolles, firelocks, blunderbushes,
foalingpieces, bowes and arrowes of the tyme of the first
Edward, and uther powerful ammunition, fit to resist the
ryot of the Scotch ; and away they marched to the newe
rmln, with Mr Mayor and the Governor, (a verrie terrible
man of war — to be married the morn to the Mayor's dochter
Isabel, if he come back with lyffe,) and the sergeants with
their halberts, and constables with their staves, going before
them." In front, there was beat some thundering engines
of warlike music, which was cut occasionally by sharp
screams of small fifes, blown into by the burgh's amateurs of
that lively musical machine. Altogether, the cavalcade pre-
sented many appearances of a stern and warlike nature,
which might well have prevented the Scotch raiders from
proceeding with their felonious intention of driving down
the obstruction to the salmon, and forced them to remain
content with the angling of trout and parr. The " verrie
sight" of the brave Wallace was deemed sufficient by those
who followed him, " to put an end to the fraye before it was
begunne."

This extraordinary cavalcade was seen passing along the
road by Patrick Hume, who had, with his companions,
retired behind some brushwood, the better to enjoy the
sight. The warriors passed on, and every now and then the
loud voice of the captain was heard commanding and
exhorting his troops to keep'Up their courage for the coming
strife. When the last file was disappearing, Hume and
his companions made the woods resound with a loud laugh,
and, starting up, and crying, " For Berwick, ho !" they hur-
ried away in the direction of the town, which the Governor,
in his anxiety to form a large assemblage, had left without
a guard. Meanwhile the burgher army pushed on for
Newmilne ; " and, when they came there," (says the chro-
nicle,) " they pitched their camp ; and nae doubt butt they
were well disciplined, seeing theye had the advantage of
the Captaine's training, with the great blessing attour of
weapons suitable — viz. rusty ould swords and pistolles ; and
they continued about three or foure houres on the bankes
and about the milne : still there was nae appearance of the
Scotch coming to fecht with them." For a long time the
captain was solemn and quiet ; but when it appeared that
the Scots " were not to come to shew fecht," he got as
wordy as a blank- verse poet, and stood up in the face of a
neighbouring wood, from which it was expected the enemy
would emanate, and called upon the cowards (as he styled
them) to come out " and dare to touche one stone of the
milne dam-dike."

" Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," he cried, " that I killed
Patrick Hume ? If not, where is he now, and he the Lord
Ross of Foulden, and he of Paxton, and all the rest of the
Border heroes ? Come forth from thy wood recesses, if
there be as much pluck in thee as will enable thee to meet
the fire of the eye of the Governor of Berwick ! Ha ! ha !
The rascals must have been at Bothwell, where, doubtless,
they felt the pith of this arm. There goeth the disadvan-
tage of bravery ! The devil a man will encounter one
whose name is terrible, and I fear I may never have the
luxury of a good fight again. This day I expected to have
fleshed my good sword. To-morrow is my wedding day.
How glorious would it have been to have made it also a
day of victory ! I could almost hack these unconscious
trees for very spite, and to give my sword the exercise it
lacketh."

And he swung his falchion from side to side, cutting off
the tops of the young firs, just as if they had been men's
heads ; but no Scotchman made his appearance. The whole
bells of Berwick now began to swing and ring as if the
town had been invaded ; and messengers, breathless and pant-

412

TALES OF THE BORDERS.

ing, arrived at the camp, arid communicated. the intelligence
that the Bastard of Hume had, with, a hody of men, got
entrance to the Mayor's house, by shewing the guard the
Governor's sword, and carried off Isabel, the Mayor's
daughter, who was more willing to go than to stay. ^ The
route of the fugitives was distinctly laid down, and it was
represented by the messengers that, by crossing over a couple
of miles, they had every chance of overtaking them and
reclaiming the disobedient maid. The recommendation was j
instantly seized by the distracted Mayor, and a shout of
the burgher forces, and an accompanying peal from the
drums and fifes, shewed the desire of the men to fulfil the
wish of their master. The captain's spirit was changed.
He burned to reclaim his bride ; but he feared the Bastard
of Hume, whose prowess was acknowledged far and wide
from the Borders. Shame did what could not have been
accomplished by love ; and, putting himself, with a mock
warlike air, at the head of the troops, away he posted as
fast as sixteen stone of beef, penetrated by alternate cur-
rents of fear, shame, and valour, would permit. The musical
instruments of war were hushed ; and as the forces hurried
on, panting and breathing, not a voice was heard but the
occasional vaunts of the captain, who found it necessary
to conceal his fear by these running shots of assumed valour.
As fate would have it, the Berwickers came up with the
Bastard's party, who, with the gay and laughing Isabel in
the midst of them, were seated, as they thought securely, in
the old Berwick wood, enjoying some wine, which she, with
wise providence, had handed to one of the men as a refresh-
ment when they should be beyond danger. The sounds of
merriment struck on the ear of the invaders ; they stopped,
and thought it safer, in the first instance, to reconnoitre — a
step highly eulogised by the Captain, who seemed to want
breath as well from the toil of the chase as from some mis-
givings of his valour, which had come, like qualms of sick-
ness, over his stout heart.

" Ha ! traitor !" cried the Mayor, " the device of sending
us to Newmilne Avill not avail thee. Give me my daughter,
traitor !" addressing himself to the Bastard, who stood now
in the front of the party, all prepared for a tough defence.

" In either of two events thou shalt have her," cried
Hume — " if thou canst take her, or if she is willing to go
with thee."

" No, no !" cried the sprightly maid herself, coming boldly
forward. " I love my father and the good citizens of Berwick,
and none of them shall lose a drop of their blood for Isabel.
If we are to have battle, let it be between the two lovers
who claim my hand. By the honour of a Mayor's daughter,
I shall be his who gaineth the day ! Stand forward, Patrick
Hume and Governor Wallace."

" Bravo !" shouted the burghers, delighted with a scheme
that smacked so sweetly of justice and safety.

All eyes were now turned on the Captain ; and Isabel,
delighted with her scheme, was seen concealing her face
with the corner of her cloak, to suppress her laughter. The
Captain saw, however, neither justice nor safety in the
scheme, and, edging near the Mayor, whispered into his ear
his intention not to fight. Palpable indications of fear were
escaping from his trembling limbs, and the hero of Bothwell
was on the eve of being discovered. Hume was prepared —
he stood, sword in hand, ready for the combat.

" Come forward, Captain !" cried the Bastard.

" Come forward !" resounded from Isabel, and a hundred
voices of the burghers.

" I am the Governor of Berwick," answered the hero, in
a trembling voice, keeping the body of the Mayor between
him and Hume. « As the servant of the King, I dare not"

(panting) "run the risk of reducing myauthority — by — by

engaging, I say by committing myself in single combat, like
a knight errant, for a runaway dam el. It comporteth not
with my dignity— hegh—hegh^I say I cannot come down

from the height of my glory at Bothwell, by committing
myself in a love brawl. But ye are my men — liegh — hegh —
ye are bound to fight when I command. 'Do you* duty—
on, on, I say, to the rescue."

" We want not the wench." responded many voices. " He
that will not fight for his love, deserves to lose her for his
cowardice." " llesign her, good Mayor," cried others.
" Give the damsel her choice," added others. " Bravo,
good fellows !" cried Bell, in the midst of her laughter ; and
a shout from Hume's men rewarded her spirit. The enthu-
siasm was caught by the Berwickers, some of whom, observ-
ing certain indications thrown out by Isabel, ran forward
and got from her a flagon of good wine. The vessel was
handed from one to another. '' Hurra for Hume !" shouted
the Berwickers. The tables were turned. All, to a man,
were with Isabel and her partner. The Mayor had sense
enough to see his position. In any way he was to lose his
daughter, and he heartily despised the coward that would
not fight for his love.

" Hume," he cried, standing forward, " come hither ;
and, Isabel, approach the side of thy father."

The laughing damsel ran forward, and, perceiving her
absolute safety, flung herself on her father's neck, and hung
there, amidst the continued shouts of the men.

" Forgive me, forgive me, father !" cried she. " My
choice is justified by my love, and the characters of my lovers.
The one is a coward, the other a brave youth. Hume's in-
tentions are honourable, and I may be the respected wife of
«ne of noble blood."

"I forgive thee, Bell," answered the father. And he took
her hand and placed it in Hume's. '' Come, Captain, forgive
her too, and let us all be friends."

He looked round for the Captain, and all the party
looked also ; but the hero was gone. He had mounted
a white Rosinante, as thin as he was fat, and was busy
striking her protruding bones with his sword, to prope-,
her on to Berwick, where he thought he would be more safe
than where he was. The figure he made in his retreat —
his large swelled body on the lean jade, like a tun of wine
on a gantress — his anxiety to get off — his receding position
— his flight after such a day of vaunting — all conspired to
render the sight ludicrous in the extreme. One general
burst of laughter filled the air ; but the Captain held on his
course, and never stopped till he arrived at Berwick. That
day Hume and Isabel were wed — and a happy day it was for
the Berwickers ; who, in place of fighting, were occupied in
drinking the healths of the couple. The device of Hume,
in sending them to the Newmilne, was admired for its
ingenuity ; and all Berwick rung with the praises of Hume
and his fair spouse. Regular entries were made in the
council books, of the expedition to the Newmilne, " where
they braived the Scottes to come and fecht them, butte the
cowardes never appeared." But it was deemed prudent to
say nothing therein of Hume's trick, which, doubtless, might
have reduced the amount of bravery which it was necessary
should appear, for the honour of the town.

PR Wilson, John Mackay

Historical, traditionary,
W25T32 and imaginative tales of
1877 the borders

v.3

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

I